#I don’t know if this is a monstrosity of a joke or if it’s actually a decent au thing

[zenmom]

When you listen to too much Fnf:

I feel like this is one of those 3am posts. And I totally blame myself for this idea 😂💀

[phantomrose96]

Prometheus

content warnings: horror. body horror. ghost show can have a little existential horror, as a treat! :)

...

Tucker and Danny sat as silhouettes in the Foley attic rec-room.

The ghoulish light of the television pinned their shadows against the back wall, pulsing in and out like fireflies at each flash of the screen. It left their backs drenched in darkness, and it made monoliths of the old furniture and piled-high boxes that wrapped the perimeter of the attic. Drafty air whistled through the gaps in the insulation. Plicks and flicks of moths beat in tone against the light of the television where the seal of the attic window failed to keep them out. Danny hounded the controller in his hands, clackering with each frenetic beat of his thumb while he mashed his buttons and leaned his full bodyweight into the assault he wrought, virtually until--

“BOOM!! Headshot!” Danny yelled with a pump of his fist. From his nonexistent peripheral vision, he could not see the way Tucker would not look at him.

“Come on, man,” Tucker said.

“Get it?” Danny asked.

“Dude, come on, like… Maybe don’t.”

Danny let out a disappointed huff of air from his nostril, spirits dampened. The wayward glow of his eye settled back on the screen: Victory blazoned across his split of the screen. You Died pulsed on Tucker’s. Danny mashed the rematch option. “Maybe get good then,” Danny said, “and then you get to make the bad puns.”

“Sorry man look I’m just—tired okay?”

“Yeah I know—”

“You can be goofy about it tomorrow—”

“I know—”

“I promise it’ll be hilarious then just—”

“Okay okay, I get it. I’ll save the jokes—”

“How much longer?”

“Hmm?”

Danny looked, and Tucker was looking now too, and it was taking all concentrated will on Tucker’s face to keep looking.

“How much longer until you’re like… You know.”

4am chimed from the grandfather clock stowed in the Foley attic. The ghostly sheen of the television splashed bright and pallid across the right side of Tucker’s face, as he stared at Danny. And it splashed bright across the left side of Danny’s face, which was the only side of Danny’s face remaining.

“I don’t know like… maybe 3 more hours, I think?” A lisp whistled from the absent flesh of his jawbone.

Tucker watched his lips. And his eyes drifted to the shadow carved dark and empty in the socket that could no longer see him, a merciful concealment of where skin turned to raw exposed flesh turned to bone.

Tucker looked forward again, and he mashed his thumbs into his own controller. Danny’s character’s skull exploded into a cloud of meat-rain before Danny had the chance to notice the match resume.

“Fine. I can do 3 more hours,” Tucker said. “And start watching your head.”

…

It wasn’t until the camping trip 4 months ago that Danny knew anything was strange.

It was a yearly Fenton tradition, which Danny tolerated and Jazz dreaded, to haul the four of them and the RV out into some swampy campground 3 hours from home. They’d roll in roaring, RV stuffed to the brim with wilderness equipment and enough mechanical monstrosities to scare away all actual wildlife. All except for the fish, who had the disadvantage of not seeing the mechanical affront to God parked with questionable legality on the campgrounds.

This year, Danny had decided he was embracing it. Because for the first time, sitting grubby and wet in the mud for 3 days sounded much nicer than his typical weekend plans, which was mainly getting his ass kicked by ghosts. He’d flagged down Valerie a week ahead of time to tell her, between gunshots, that he’d be absent for those 3 days. Valerie had taken equal offence at the request that she pick up Phantom’s slack, and the implication that she wasn’t already doing that.

But it meant the ghosts were covered for the weekend, and it meant Danny was free to do nothing more exciting than sit in the mud, which was all well and good enough for Danny. Although his hopes of leaving the weekend with the same number of scars he started with were dashed by hour 5. It was his own fault too. Jack had insisted Danny gut the fish Jack caught via a blast of the Fenton Disintegrator to the lake (unconventional, not even a fishing device, a ghost weapon he and Maddie were fine-tuning. A ranger came and yelled at them about it.) And while distracted by his parents getting told off for being menaces, Danny miscalculated the slipperiness of both fish and knife.

Luckily the RV was, among many many things, a hospital on wheels, and Jazz had quit sulking long enough to take a morbid fascination in cleaning Danny’s palm out with antiseptic that burned like acid and bandaging up his palm. For dinner that night, Danny ate his open-flame grilled fish with a little more prejudice than usual.

By Saturday, his hand hadn’t healed. Nor by Sunday. And on Sunday evening while Maddie and Jack busied themselves with packing up the tent they’d both invented and yet struggled to collapse back into its box, Danny flagged Jazz with quiet urgency.

“I think there’s something wrong with my hand.”

“Wrong how?”

“Infected, maybe.”

Jazz knit her brow in concern. “It looked fine this morning,” she muttered as she pulled Danny down onto the stump beside her and flipped open the First Aid kit latch. She unraveled Danny’s bandage layer by layer, and the concerned knit to her brow loosened to confusion.

“It looks fine. It’s barely even red.”

Danny snatched his hand back. “Yeah, and it’s barely healed at all.”

“I mean, it’s healed a little bit.”

“Yeah but. Barely.”

“It looks pretty normal.”

“Jazz my day-job is getting whacked with ghost machetes,” Danny said, tone growing a little tense at Jazz’s lack of concern. “I know how quickly cuts are supposed to heal.”

“And how quickly is that?”

“I mean. It depends. But like a day.”

“A day?”

“Or maybe 25 hours, I guess.”

“Danny, you cut yourself pretty deep.”

“26 hours max, literally.”

Jazz was staring. Danny felt awkwardly judged.

“Hey um, as a question Danny, do you remember the last injury you got before your ghost powers?”

Danny hesitated. He racked his brain and some part of him felt a little embarrassed how hard he had to search, as if it were shameful to have been so delicately uninjured before this whole thing.

“…Dash, maybe. But Dash it good at the kind of quick jabby punches that hit your nerve but don’t bruise.”

“Anything else?”

Danny fell quiet. Then brightened. “I fell off my bike last year. Racing Tucker. Scraped up my shin and knee.”

“And how long did that take to heal?”

The delight faded a bit. Danny thinned his lips thinking. “…Maybe a while.”

“Probably a few weeks.”

“Jeez, really? No.” Danny said. And he so deeply wanted to be offended, because he’d become the biggest expert in the family on getting his skin used as a ghost shrapnel canvas, which should make him the authority on injury healing. And Jazz was doubting all of that. “No. That’d heal in like. A day.”

“Maybe with ghost powers,” Jazz answered. “Maybe in ghost form. Which, currently and for the last 3 days, you have not been in.”

Danny fell quiet. He considered this information that deeply annoyed him until, with grudgingness edging to acceptance, he looked at his hand, and then his sister, and then his hand.

“….Oh.”

That night, home and showered and with the clock creeping toward 1am, Danny sat on his bed. He pooled his hands in his lap, lit by the moonlight pouring through his bedroom window. He sat an inch above his bed, in fact, hair shimmery white and his right glove removed. In the wash of moonlight he watched his palm. And there was something haunting, almost, in the way he could see the edges of the cut stitch themselves back together bit by tiniest bit. He lost himself in a grainy infomercial on his television, and when it ended, his cut was gone.

…

Phantom returned to the ghost fighting scene with an unwarranted new confidence. In truth nothing had changed. But Danny operated now with the knowledge that he was a particular kind of resilient that he’d not actually realized before. And while he did not like getting fileted by Skulker’s ghost gut-hook knife, or seared by Ember’s flame guitar, or bonked in the head by Fenton Bolas (Dad why), there was a certain delight in the “This will all not be a problem by tomorrow”-ness of it all.

Even better, he now knew that just idling in ghost mode for an extra hour or two was all it took to be right as rain again. (“This is making your Gameboy addiction worse than Tucker’s,” Sam had commented. “Well how else am I supposed to pass the time?” Danny asked while mashing buttons with one less finger than usual. “You could read a book.”)

On the flipside, it did make Danny grouchier about mid-school-day attacks, which didn’t afford him the luxury of floating around to bake in ghost mode for an hour or two watching bad tv. And unless Mr. Lancer got real chill real fast with Danny Phantom taking Danny Fenton’s English tests, it meant that any school-time fight injury had to be dealt with conventional human-style, and super-healed after school.

And Danny carried this knowledge with more bitterness than usual one fall afternoon when a fight with Technus had already gouged into the first 15 minutes of his math test, and now Danny was going to have to suck it up for the last 45 minutes if he wanted to pass geometry this quarter. Which was bullshit because that last blast Technus got on him had really fucking hurt.

Danny landed, and in his math-induced funk, he missed the particular wide-eyed way Sam and Tucker stared at him. “Here,” Danny said, handing off the thermos to Tucker, and Danny let his human transformation slip through in rings around his sternum.

“Danny stop,” Sam said, and with an urgent breathlessness that froze Danny in place. “Do not turn back.”

Confusion seeped into Danny’s blood. He let the transformation rings fade away, and he felt the thermos heavy in his outstretched hand that Tucker would not take. Heavy and wet. Heavy, and very very wet.

He looked at his hand, and his white glove was unrecognizable beneath the saturation of red. The thermos dropped from his hand, and suddenly Danny wasn’t so sure which direction was up.

“Sit,” Sam maybe said, or said something like it. Her hands were on his shoulders. He was easing in a direction that was probably down. His butt hit cold pavement. And suddenly he raked in a shuddering breath which was wet as mud.

Sam was pulling away the top of his suit, which was the worst possible place for her to do that considering how much it hurt. She was pulling right where Technus had blasted him, and Danny had half a mind to tell her off until he saw what was underneath the fabric.

“That’s not good,” he bubbled out through a lot of blood in his mouth and throat.

Baseball-sized. Like someone had taken a very large hole-puncher right to his sternum. A very good hole-puncher because it had in fact punched him straight through and run off with the little cut-out it stole. Globby flesh spilled to fill in some of the empty space. But a solid chunk of sternum, and heart, and lung, and spine, were rudely elsewhere.

Danny was in a very slippery wet dream, and his fluttering eyes agreed.

“No,” Sam said with an unnecessarily aggressive pinch of his skin. “Absolutely do not fall asleep.”

“Ow,” Danny said, maybe about the pinch but also his missing organs.

This wasn’t good enough for Sam who was a little bit ghost-shaded herself while she grabbed both Danny’s ears tight and angled Danny’s eyes to hers. “If you turn human now that’s going to be very very bad. You’re fine, Danny. You’re just in shock, I think. Focus on me. Come on, count with me Danny. 1. 2.”

“Isn’t counting sheep supposed to put you to sleep?” Danny quipped, but all the blood gurgling maybe ruined his delivery a little.

…

His heart sewed itself back together in 20 minutes. His esophagus and trachea kindly followed at the 27-minute mark, the last of the tubage knitting itself together and forming the correct kind of air-seal against anything else in his chest cavity. That was a blessing, because passing the time was easier when he could talk without re-enacting the elevator from The Shining – a joke Danny had tried to deliver several times and which refused to land.

And while he still did not have his new spine vertebrae nor sternum by the 30-minute mark, Danny could see the way the last of the white fear had left Sam’s face and the way Tucker could now face him directly. And that told him that however he looked, he no longer looked like someone who was going to die.

By the 1-hour mark, Danny sat drenched in his own blood from a fatal wound that no longer existed. And he’d missed his math test.

…

Super healing was cool. Very cool. What other kind of power lets you just walk away from fatal injuries?

At the close of a ghost fight, thermos capped, swimming in the eerie silence of a street cleared of screams, Danny stood. And he shivered. He ran his hands up and down his stomach, his chest, his back his face, pressing any pain-point to discover if his fingers would sink in wet and deep. Was it safe to transform back? If he made a mistake, would he notice fast enough? Would he be able to turn back again in time?

Alone in the snow of the Amity golf course. The roof of the mall. The back archives of the library. Danny lingered. Many places were good for lingering, and so Danny would linger, wherever and whenever he could. It made that held-breath feeling of transforming back easier, to know no part of him was at risk of undoing him.

And sometimes his hand did come away sticky. And in the black of night Danny went home, mindful to step only on the kitchen tile from which blood could be wiped up cleanly. And he was tired from too many nights of this when he pulled cereal from the cupboard and splashed milk into a bowl and cleared away the nuts and bolts from the half-undressed Fenton Disintegrator (undergoing v2 upgrades) and flickered the noxious glow of the muted television to life while his liver stitched itself back together. The tremble would not quite leave his cereal spoon hand but he’d manage.

One night Walker had blasted off half of Danny’s skull. And he lay shaking hunched on the pavement willing himself to overcome the pangs of shock radiating through his body until he had enough composure to call Tucker on the phone and ask if he could come over, if they could play Man vs. Zombie maybe, and stay awake through the night while his brain matter remade itself.

One night he had to grab Valerie by the ankle before she flew off, and she probably only heeded him because the break in Phantom’s superhero bravado unnerved her so much. “Please just stay and talk to me. Something bad will happen if I fall asleep,” he said, while holding the parts that used to be his stomach. “Define ‘bad.’” “I’ll die.” “Sounds like a human.” She shouldn’t have taken pity on him. But she did. Maybe because she was a human who would die like Danny if left on the pavement with her stomach open. Valerie stayed until the sun rose.

And he was lucky, because as a human he should have died. And Danny didn’t. He just came close, more and more and more. Until the sight of a raised ghost weapon forced a very human flinch from him.

…

“…losing an edge, you’d say, Craig?” “Not exactly. As a psychiatrist who’s worked with many veterans and active-duty soldiers, it’s common to—”

“Morning,” Jack said, flipping up his welding mask just long enough to nod to Danny before re-busying himself in his soldering.

“Dad, do you think maybe you could do that in the lab?” Jazz asked over a bowl of cornflakes, with a tone one might use when asking a 10-year-old to move his basketball game outside.

“Hmm, why? The table won’t catch fire.”

“Which is what you said last time,” Jazz said, carefully plucking up a cooled bit of metal scrap from beside her cereal bowl.

“…ffered many fatal injuries on camera, who knows how many weren’t capt—”

The television drowned beneath the screech of Jack’s welding, let up to breathe for moments at a time before Jack resumed the drowning. Danny’s eyes followed. The refurbished Fenton Disintegrator had nearly reformed, bigger than its original body, with a gaping fish-mouth twice the radius of the thing which had blasted up the fish in the campground lake.

“I just think, Dad, that you and Mom have a whooooole laboratory basement to yourselves, and I have just this one dining table to eat cereal at, so—”

“But then you kids would miss out on what I’m making. See, Danny’s interested. Danny, watch this—”

Jack hoisted the monster up. He hitched it atop his shoulder, and set his eye behind its sight, and twisted at the hip to point its open maw directly at Danny.

Danny froze.

“Dad, Jesus, at least show some trigger-discipline if you’re—Danny?”

Danny could not move. He could not move or really see. The shockwave rippled through him, and he believed for the moment that surely he’d been shot until Jazz shook him. “Danny, are you okay?”

Danny’s heart was intact but still it squeezed like it had been ripped. His legs were whole but they were numb beneath him. And he was useless too. Over what? Over nothing. Over a gun pointed at him, the sort which had been pointed at him 4,000 times before.

“…Danny?” Jazz asked, more worried than before. Jack had put down the gun, and he was staring at Danny in the same way.

And it was stupid. So very stupid. Because Danny had super-healing, and a hit from something like that would heal. It could rip him apart, and he’d be completely fine.

So it was all actually incredibly incredibly stupid that he was somehow, without even meaning to, crying.

…

The fight had ended three hours ago. And three hours was longer than only the worst of his injuries took to heal. Tonight had not been bad at all, just a bit of ripping and tearing at his leg from a bear-trap Skulker had laid (despite Skulker insisting he did not know what a bear was). And that had healed up in 20 minutes flat.

Danny lingered anyway, sitting soaking cold in the snow on the golf course. He liked that it was high-up here. He liked that the lights fanned far and wide. He liked that the razed-flat golf turf allowed nothing to hide. He wiled away the hours he ought to be sleeping, because there was a security in consciousness, in his ghost form. If he slept, he could be killed. And if he sat resting in ghost form on the crest of the golf course hill, he could not.

But he could nod off. Catching his head at each dip. But his mind fizzled and faded, rubbing against the staticky edge of sleep, enough to perhaps not notice steps in the snowfall that tracked him to where he sat.

The whir of the charging gun kicked him to high alert.

All alert, all at once, so suddenly adrenaline soaked that Danny had no sense of orientation when he spun on spot and his eyes drank in the sight of the barrel-mouth breathing to life in his direction.

“Told you I fixed the calibration on this, Honey.”

“Well at least it’s not a fish.”

Stop, Danny wanted to say. But he was paralyzed. He was dread. He was stone.

It screeched. And it roared. And with a connection of a car crash, it took greedily for itself a gibbous moon of Danny’s torso.

He collapsed. Eyes spinning. Ears ringing. Sensation like fire and like ice and like buzzing static and nothing, feeling, at all to connect to his legs.

Stop, Danny wanted to say. But he needed a mouth for that. So the second blast connected.

…

It had been an amount of time. Jack and Maddie Fenton may have stooped in the snow and collected samples to study. Danny could not know, because he’d need eyes to know. They may have crunched with their boots and mused about the resilience of ecto-flesh, more resilient than fish-flesh. Danny could not know, because he’d need ears to know. They may have picked him up piece-meal and carried him in their pockets. Danny could not know. Not without touch.

He may have been on the golf course. He may not have been. There was no ‘where’ Danny could know. He needed his proprioception for that.

There was was. There was something Danny hoped was be. This was, Danny hoped, awake. This was the only awake he could be without a brain. And if this was awake, how long could he last? And if this was awake, was it enough to heal again?

Super healing was cool. It saved you from death. But maybe not always.

Was time passing…? Was the snow cold. Was the wind blowing. Was the hilltop white under pooling lights. Was it. And did it. And was he and did he.

Was time passing?

Surely, it had been just an eternity, by now. An eternity at least.

Or had it been only one second.

Or Danny wasn’t here.

He was, though. He had to exist to feel what he felt in the moment. He had to exist even if he was deprived of the mouth needed to scream the agony that was, in its entirety, him.

…

Sun glazed the snow on the east bank of the golf course down to a slushy sheen by 10am the next morning. Mitted, in snow boots, three trespassers combed the 18 holes of Amity Park Golf Course.

“Are you sure it’s this one?” Sam asked, voice hoarse with a question that had been repeated once an hour for the last three hours between heaving breaths of clearing snow.

“It has to be this one. They said golf course there’s only one golf course,” Jazz answered, and her hands trembled against the heel of the shovel she dug into her nearest snowbank.

“Do you see any foot prints?”

“They’re melted.”

“Well check the melted sides then!”

“We checked the melted sides.”

“Maybe we missed—”

“Guys shut up,” Tucker said, and he said it low, and he said it with lips the color of ash. He stood rooted. And his eyes shifted to the crown of the hill 30 feet to their right.

Jazz and Sam shut up. Because they heard it too.

Jazz abandoned her shovel in the snow. She ran. But Sam was faster.

And it was a noise. Long and piercing and deflating. Quiet. Then starting fresh from the top. Long and singular, like the note of a bagpipe. Sam rounded the crest of the hill. And she found the noise first.

And this close, she realized what it was. The noise was relief. Because the thing lying in the melted snow was finally enough of a mouth, and enough of a throat, and enough of a lung, to scream.

[lovebugism]

hi, bug! i’ve been one of your many avid readers for a long time but it’s my first time submitting a request for your summer fic fest 🥹 could i pretty please request for jealous!mean!eddie x ditzy/sunshine!reader where he sees her ex trying to win her back? ahhh thank you ily! ❤️

thank you for requesting angel, ily :D here's a sorta part 2 to this fic! — eddie doesn't realize he's been taking you on dates until your ex shows up (jealous!grumpy!eddie, friends to lovers, brief allusions to smut | 1.3k)

bug's summer fic fest (⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

When Eddie took you to Benny’s Burgers that Saturday evening after your heart got broken, he fully intended for it to be the last. That was until the next Saturday came around, anyway, and he found himself hungry and thinking of you. So, sharing a milkshake at the diner became a two-time deal, begrudgingly so.

The third time was a total accident, and he’d like that on record. Eddie had come alone that day. You made a stupid joke about him stalking you when you just happened to be there, too. (Both of you were secretly hoping the other would show, of course, but neither of you would admit it out loud.)

After that, it just started to feel like tradition. Eddie didn’t feel right going to the diner without you, so he never did. Instead, he buys you dinner once a week, sits with you in your designated booth by the window, and pretends all of it is something he has to do. Because it’s much easier than acknowledging that a lifetime of Saturday evenings with you still wouldn’t be enough.

“Can I have some of your fries?” you wonder through a distressingly large mouthful of cheeseburger.

Eddie scowls. “You said you didn’t want any.”

“I didn’t,” you shrug innocently then swallow down the too-big bite. “But yours look really good…”

“Too bad,” he scoffs and chucks a fry into his mouth. “Get your own.”

You slouch against the pleather seat with your features screwed in a gentle pout. It takes Eddie a record-breaking three seconds to slide his basket of fries across the table to you.

He huffs all dramatically about ‘cause he wants you to know he’s annoyed. You rise again, beaming anyway, because you know most of it’s just for show.

Eddie watches with his brows pinched in confusion as you methodically pick a single fry from the batch. His frown deepens when you dip it into your milkshake. 

“Don’t taint the ice cream, weirdo,” he protests, exhaling sharply through his nose in place of a laugh.

You giggle through your mouthful at the screwed look on his face. “It’s good!” you insist. “Here— Try one.”

Eddie grimaces when you pluck another fry from the basket and scoop it into the milkshake. He flinches when you threaten to hand the monstrosity over to him. “I think I’m good, actually.”

“Try it.”

Your giddiness makes him smile despite himself. He concedes with a heaving sigh. “This is the last time I take you anywhere, you know that?” he grouses, mostly muffled as you feed him the ice cream-covered fry.

You smile to yourself, wider than you realize, and swipe your palms together. You’re pretty sure he’s said that to you every time he’s brought you here — yet, for some reason, he still shows up at your doorstep at seven o’clock every week. 

“Yeah, I know,” you hum with a fond sigh. “But it tastes good, right?”

Eddie’s pretty face is swirled and largely emotionless. You can’t tell if he’s disgusted or amused. “It tastes like… a potato covered in chocolate ice cream,” he deadpans.

“Wow. You’re a genius, Eds,” you muse from across the table. You cross your arms along the top of it and fight back a smile. “Can’t believe it took you two whole years to graduate.”

“Don’t push it—”

He’s interrupted, first, by the overwhelming smell of cologne (pine and lavender, achingly so) — and then by a deep and obviously forced laugh. “It didn’t take you long, did it?” a strangely familiar voice wonders aloud, deep and smooth like honey.

Your head whips at the same time as Eddie’s, both of you wearing similar looks of confusion. A tall boy with nice hair and expensive clothes (an obvious King Steve clone) stands at the head of the table. Your table.

Josh O. from fucking Mr. Mundy’s.

You force a breathy laugh of palpable confusion. “What?”

“Nothing. I was just… wondering why you never called me back,” the boy shrugs and crosses his toned arms over his equally toned chest. His smile is lopsided and perfect; his teeth are slightly crooked and perfect, too. It’s fucking annoying.

“But I guess I have my answer now, right?” Josh O. from Mr. Mundy’s continues with another hearty chuckle. “Trying all the flavors of Hawkins, aren’t we, sweetheart?”

Eddie’s chest burns, and not in a metaphorical way. The red-hot embers there set his ribcage aflame, turning himself into a wildfire of withheld rage. His nostrils flare with it as his dark eyes flit from the asshole towering over the booth, to your cowering form, and then back to the asshole again. 

He seethes quietly and waits for you to stand up for yourself. The moment never comes.

“She didn’t call you back because you’re a fuckin’ douchebag,” Eddie blurts for the both of you, still chewing at the monstrosity he’s wildly unsure of — which he can barely taste now, through his blinding anger and all.

Josh O. from Mr. Mundy’s pretty smile ebbs only slightly. He squints his glittering eyes and long lashes, fluffy brows pinching softly in confusion. “I’m sorry. Who are you again?” he wonders with a cynical laugh.

Eddie’s answer is immediate and equally venomous. “The asshole taking your girlfriend on a date, tough guy,” he mocks.

The boy scoffs. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Were you sayin’ that the night you were tryin’ to cop a feel in your car?”

You shift uncomfortably in the booth. The cracked pleather sticks to your clammy skin. You feel the tension pressing on both sides of you until you can hardly breathe. “Eddie, stop—”

“—You know, it’s real impolite to touch people without permission,” Eddie continues despite your plea, features pinched in a faux-sympathetic pout. “Didn’t your mommy ever tell you that?”

Josh O. from Mr. Mundy’s scoffs, both amused and distantly muddled. He laughs softly to himself and steps back from the table. “You’re a fuckin’ freak, man,” the boy murmurs as he leaves.

“That’s funny,” Eddie calls after him anyway. “Your mom says that, too.” 

“Eddie.”

The boy relaxes in the booth once he’s gone. His rigid shoulders deflate slowly with a drawn-out sigh. He motions across the table with a pale, ringed hand. “Can I have my fries back, or are you gonna eat ‘em all.”

His effortless deflection is almost admirable.

“I’m gonna eat ‘em all,” you joke in an instant.

“Figured,” Eddie deadpans. He reaches for the basket in front of you and plucks a couple from the dwindling pile. He pinches them into his mouth, wipes his salty hands on his jeans, and pretends nothing ever happened.

You swallow hard and avert your gaze. You cradle the cold glass of your milkshake with one hand and stir at its melting contents with the other. “Thanks for that… By the way.”

“Don’t mention it,” Eddie shrugs. “Like, seriously. Don’t. It’s gonna make everything weird if you do.”

“Okay,” you nod firmly, then glance at the boy beneath your lashes. A mischievous smirk curls at the very corner of your mouth. “So… This is a date now, huh?”

“Shut up,” Eddie frowns and takes his fries back. “It just slipped out.”

“So what? That’d make this our… Fourth date? Fifth?”

“Fourth,” he corrects.

Your smile widens. “Most guys usually get laid by then, don’t they?”

Eddie scoffs through his mouthful. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, sweetheart,” he quips in an audibly sarcastic monotone.

The rest of the quote-unquote date plays out like normal. You make mindless conversation while you finish your burgers, sharing a milkshake between you while you steal Eddie’s fries. 

You don’t tell him that you wouldn’t mind if he felt you up in his van — that you’d happily let him, if he asked; and Eddie doesn’t tell you that he goes to sleep dreaming about it most nights. 

[s-che]

Monsterhearts 2: Plotting Anti-Plot

Last week I had the fortune to MC (and play) Monsterhearts 2 for the first time as the Dream Library begins a unit on monsters, monstrosity, and monsterfucking which will carry us through November, and boy howdy am I glad we managed to do it. 

For those who (somehow) don’t know, Monsterhearts is a game that bills itself as being about “the messy lives of teenage monsters.” It cites Twilight, Buffy, Ginger Snaps, The Vampire Diaries, and The Craft as media touchstones, it’s not joking when it says that these monsters are 1. messy and 2. teenagers. Monsterhearts is angsty, horny, frightening and, above all else, extremely fun to play. On top of that, Monsterhearts is also one of those games that, if you’re in a certain sector of the indie RPG scene, people will remind you is extremely fun to play all the fucking time. It feels sometimes like every designer I know has a good Monsterhearts story, and as much as Avery Alder’s reputation on a larger stage has been defined by The Quiet Year, I get the sense that for people who like what Monsterhearts is doing it’s an extremely hard game to beat. 

So to be totally honest, I was more than a little anxious MCing for my first time actually playing the game. There’s a sense in which hosting a game which you know is great can be way harder than hosting games you think might be bad — after all, if the session goes poorly, there’s nobody to blame but yourself. On top of that, Monsterhearts moves through some tricky territory: underage sex is a core element of the game, and the eight “Small Towns” (short, pre-prepped settings for quick starting the game) all deal more or less explicitly with histories of racism and colonialism in communities across North America. While these are interesting places to go in play, the idea of taking them on myself as host made me shy away a little bit (and I’m excited in the next session to look at things from a player’s perspective). 

All in all, though, I think the session was a resounding success. I went in with basically no prep and as much familiarity with the book as I could get (not enough to realize the quick reference sheet we were using for the first half of the session was from Monsterhearts 1, but so it goes), relying on the game itself — which leans away from strictly organized plots and encourages you, in true PBTA fashion, to let characters and their needs bounce off each other until the conversation goes somewhere interesting — to get us smoothly into play. I would call my efforts there a mixed success: while Avery has a real skill for writing pedagogically, giving you the explicit frameworks you need to get into play (if you’ve never begun a session of The Quiet Year by reading the rules book aloud to each other, you should go fix that now), the session was hampered a little by some awkward pacing and uncertainty: partially driven by my chronic tendency to waste time on slowly establishing things in one-shots rather than swinging as hard as I can in the first five minutes and letting the players lead from there and partially by player character relationships that lead to clear, decisive actions... which left one of our players bored at work while the other two went off adventuring. We ended up taking a moment, after returning from the normal mid-session bio-break, to chat and refocus ourselves, figuring out where we wanted to go and what we wanted to see in the last hour or so of the session, and then jumping back in and — thankfully — playing hard to reach a strong conclusion. In the end, I’m not interested in tracking down exactly where the first half of our session lost its footing (although I have some ideas for how I could have hit harder as an MC). I’m more interested in celebrating the way the table was able to come together, talk explicitly about what we wanted, and get the game somewhere satisfying for everyone involved. We closed on, among other things: an underwater fight between the Fairy (Mermaid?) Queen and a Kraken-Leviathan-Hellmonster, a throuple sneaking off from a beach party to hook up, and the messy end of a South Jersey summer (complete with a tsunami and a beached whale front of the boardwalk). It was a good time. 

Most striking to me in this moment, however, is the way thinking about Monsterhearts as a plotless game positions both me as MC and the other players. It really speaks to the way that capital-T The capital-C Conversation works in Powered by the Apocalypse games (good ones, anyway) to let play flow not according to the rules of a paced narrative, but along lines of player interest and highly-charged emotional incident. It is, I think, part of what makes all the PBTA games we’ve played in the Dream Library sing (in no small part because we pruned the last unit and didn’t play any PBTA games I think are bad, but that’s a different conversation) and it suits this game — with it’s emphasis on sex and messy desire — extremely well. It also fits in nicely with a point I’ve heard a couple of people make recently: that thinking of RPGs as first and foremost collective narrative engines is, at the very least, a narrow view. 

Anyway, this week I’m fortunate enough to be joined by a new host (hi @jdragsky) so I can check out MH as a player, then we’ve got a couple of two-shots planned for the end of the month before we move on to our next monstrously intimate game: Bluebeard’s Bride. You want in on an upcoming game? Have a link. You want to hear more about Monsterhearts? One of my players wrote up some of her thoughts as well.

Otherwise, well, get out of here. Scram.

[sgtmickeyslaughter]

Happy Birthday Ian Gallagher!

May rolled around again, and Ian turned 28. The weather was weird, hot and humid one day, cold and rainy the next.

The hardcore work schedule they both agreed on for the early part of the year so they could travel in the summer was wearing on both of them and Ian was exhausted by the hyper vigilance he put himself under when the weather started fluctuating and the days grew longer with the onset of spring. He was heartbroken and disappointed that beautiful days set off alarm bells in his head, signaling a manic episode could be eminent. 

He didn’t want to celebrate his birthday, he told Mickey as much and received only a glance and an understanding confirmation from his husband. His family would throw a party regardless, it was scheduled for next weekend, but on the thursday that his birthday actually fell on, Ian wasn’t feeling celebratory. 

He wasn't sad or depressed at the idea of turning a year older, he just wasn't up for performing birthday joy he didn’t really feel for anyone else. 

But when he woke up, naturally and not to the sound of his alarm, Mickey was kneeling on their bed expectantly holding a cake. A lumpy, lopsided thing poorly covered in white icing he probably made after Ian fell asleep last night.

It had patches of bare chocolate cake sticking out between the crumby white icing and it threatened to topple over, ready to smear the blue poorly iced Happy Birthday Ian all over their comforter. 

Ian looked between the cake and his husband for a second, confused. Mickey pulled a face after a while, “blow it out, dipshit.”

There was one candle sitting in the center and Ian was pretty sure they had used it before, and that definetly wasn’t sanitary, but he propt himself up on his elbows and blew it out anyways, causing Mickey to grin slightly before setting it on the nightstand.

“I know you don’t want to celebrate, but I just wanted to give you a little break” he explained softly. “I called Verde growers and pushed our pickup back a little so we don’t have to leave till noon.”

Ian flopped down with a huff, it was probably about 9am if he had to guess. “Yeah?” He asked, patting a hand down on Mickey’s thigh and rubbing slightly.

“Yup” Mickey confirmed, learning forward to kiss Ian lightly. The smell of the faint smoke from the candle wafted between them.

“And you made a cake” Ian stated, glancing over at the sugary monstrosity.

“If you can call it that” Mickey joked, pulling the plate onto his lap boxer covered lap and sitting with crossed legs, producing two forks from behind him.

Ian sat up with him, comforter falling away revealing his shirtless chest. “Just one bite ‘cause-”

“Cause cake for breakfast will upset your stomach. Yeah, I know Gallagher. Fuckin’ pansy.” 

The cake was definitely box mix and the frosting was the tinned kind, but Ian looked down at the poorly drawn letters and grinned, genuine warmth pooling in his chest as he watched his husband clumsily lick frosting from his bottom lip. 

Ian swallowed and took the cake, putting it back where it was and pulling his husband in until he was sitting in Ian’s lap, bodies pressed together. He wrapped his arms firmly around his waist and leaned his face against the center of Mickey’s chest, rubbing his forehead against the soft material of his tee-shirt. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he woke up without an alarm, it felt good. He felt well rested and settled with his husband’s heavy weight against him. 

“You okay?” Mickey asked, running a hand through his hair. 

Ian leaned his head back, blearily looking up at him. “I’m good, thank you.”

“You’re my big guy,” Mickey said, quietly teasing. “I had to do something.” 

“‘M your big guy” Ian agreed placing his head back down, this time with his ear against Mickey’s chest, content to listen to the rhythmic beating of his heart. 

Maybe they’d spend the rest of their extra time in the morning to make breakfast, or take an extra long shower, or leisurely get each other off, but all Ian wanted to do for the moment was hold his husband and revel in their closeness. 

And what he wanted, he was going to get. It was his birthday after all. 

[koreis]

Made another sticker a while ago :3 might print it later.

The joke behind it is that Sabo is the kind of guy who would favor psychological torture and he’s plain unhinged and what better torture than threat by chicken? An acquaintance actually put a terrible image in my head after I drew this. Here’s a block of text about it:

The man’s back is to you. He’s dressed in blues, midnight vest and icy shirt, but his warm golden curls seems to bounce with sunlight as the breeze sends them dancing. He cuts a regal figure in the nothingness, with his back soldier straight, like the kind of gentleman one’s parents would want them to bring home. However, you’d have to get to know him first. He turns his head. He’s looking at something. His eyes are the purest black, or are they the darkest blue? You wouldn’t know. What is he looking at?

You blink. And you’re in a chair. Looking through the eyes of someone from another life, or maybe another future. The colors are all wrong, too dark, and something is swimming. You think it’s your head. The man is there again. His face is youthful, boyish.

He’s far away, but he’s noticed you’ve awoken. He smiles. It’s a nice grin, but too much teeth to be a friendly one. Barely anything is visible, but a light shines above his him. A halo. You think. He sets his gaze on you, heavy eyes adding pounds to your shoulders. You squirm and find your movements stopped. You’re bound, trapped between those eyes.

“You’ve never made this easy,” he says, words echoing down the hall. He’s shifts his foot, taking a step toward you.

“Perhaps because they’re a far greater threat to you than anyone who would look for them. Unlucky for you, I’m not anyone.”

Another foot.

He’s captivating. Maybe it’s the bad lighting that makes you focus on his face, the delicate features behind blonde curls, the slight upturn to his nose, or maybe it’s just his face. There’s a scar running through it, over one eye. Objectively, it’s ugly, but to you, it’s like a flame.

Another step.

And he may be getting too close. He’s a stranger, and you’re a captive. Perhaps this situation scares you. It should. It’s bizarre. But you feel like you’ve met him in a dream once.

He’s holding something. Bright yellow, with red lips. A crude imitation of a bird, a monstrosity.

You want to ask about it. Ask about him. Anything. But you have no words.

He squeezes it and it groans something dying. He squeezes it again, and it wails.

You decide that you don’t like it. But you don’t have to words to make him stop.

Another step, and he squeezes it again. Twice now. Four times. The halls echo with its tortured screams.

And finally, his eyes are level with yours. Dark swirling storms. Your noses are almost touching, and his grin is feral. Fearless. All teeth, with a hook to his lips. And he holds his cursed bird next to your ear. It caresses you, smooth and gentle. Your breath catches. He squeezes it, and your head feels like drowning.

It sounds like death, like hell. The repeated wail of the ill at ease, the buried but not at peace, the restless. And then it stops. And he giggles with glee. Sweet and charming. Your eyes refocus. His face is dazzling.

“So. Will you tell me where they are?”

You can only answer in silence.

He frowns. “I can subject you to this forever you know.”

Your heart jumps at the threat. And you finally find your words. Some of them.

“What are you even looking for?”

He scoffs. “My memories. I know you have them.”

Memories? What memories? You blink again, and he’s holding the chicken in your face. Right. That’s what it is. A chicken. Out of the corner of your vision, you can see him watching, cataloging your reactions. He bares his teeth.

“So,” he starts, “What’ll it be?”

~~~

This is a whole excerpt of nonsense that I just wrote btw. TLDR: someone told me that they imagined Sabo walking toward them squeezing the rubber chicken in a menacing manner—I couldn’t unsee it.

I just moved into college, which is very exciting and scary. Working hard on the next chapter of my fic; hopefully it’ll meet my and readers’ expectations. Idk how writers manage to keep a balance between canon and divergence as well as in-character and expansion of character, kind of like finding the middle ground between salt and pepper in a dish. I guess it’ll come with experience. I’m so happy and weird about so many things right now. It’s a growing up thing me thinks. Love you guyss :333333

[that-one-pretty-bitch]

So, I was explaining the plot of Obey me! shall we date to @loekas​ 

And here it is:

FYI: Everyone in Obey me! is emotionally constipated as F U C K

I just know that the Obey me lovers are about to come for my soul

Lucifer- pride

Basically a total asshole and prick. He constantly overworks himself. He has threatened to kill the MC many many times. He punishes his brothers in cruel ways. ( A sadist ) To make things better though, he is hot, i’ll give him that.

Mammon- Greed

A thief, will fucking steal from you. He is the MC's best friend and fandom's favorite although he acts greedy like my little brother during Christmas so I fail to see the appeal and cry blood whenever I see smut on him bcz he acts like a spoiled 5 yr old brat who loves his mom but will never admit it. You could hold a gun to his head and force him to say it but he will not

Leviathan- Envy

What a loser, honestly. All my man does is play video games and simp over underage waifu's. ( YOU CANT TELL ME RURI HANNA IS NOT LIKE 8 ) He 10/10 has a body pillow. Also attempted to kill the MC, even though MC is his only friend ( thats sad ). A hardcore gen z and hated by a lot of the fandom. Shut in Otaku and a creepy discord mod.

Satan- Wrath

Daddy issues who?? Lucifer is his dad and he HATES when he is compared to Lucifer because spoiled brat doesn't want to be like that "ugly old man". He was created out of Lucifer's wrath when their sister died and since then everyone sees him as a replacement for their dead sister he hates it. The kind of guy who would smash random objects when angry bcz of temper tantrums. I don’t feel bad for him because??? Daddy issues??? Suck it up, Lucifer isn’t even that bad your just salty he’s hotter. Also purge that outfit rn, that's a crime to fashion.

Asmodeus- Lust

A boy but so girlypop??( No hate I love girlypop boys ) Probs fucked every human, demon and angel in existence. Gossip queen and mean girl. Never trust him with secrets, he would tell the entire school. Horny 24/7, honestly a big cheater and fuckboy. Regina George 2.0, will make fun of your outfit because he wants to look better. That pretty girl that you go to talk to but turns out she has a nasty attitude and talks shit about everyone?? Thats him. Then he gets mad when people call him ugly??? Also compliment fishing on Insta all the time.

Beel - Gluttony ( older twin )

Genuinely sweet. Himbo, super muscular?? He plays sports, that one high school jock that EVERY girl has a crush on. Crying and temper tantrums when he is hungry and not given food. Tried to eat MC when he got hungry- but he apologized to MC and now they are cool. Man child tbh

Belphegor - Sloth ( younger twin )

I bet y’all were WAITING for my opinion on this one

I hate you. Murderer, literally everyone hates him. Nobody in the fandom likes him because he actually succeeded in killing the MC but they were brought back to life by the demon king and his butler. Dangerous mf, MC forgives him though?? Once you get to know him he is just a sleepy baby that wakes up with murder on his mind lol. But then again EVERYONE tried to kill MC, he was the only one that succeeded. Ngl he is pretty bad at pretending to be a defenseless human, I didn’t fall for it but the game made me go in there anyway.

Simeon- angel

My man could rail me but he would hate me irl. Holy man, jesus is good you all are unholy. Sweet? Kind? Talented writer? Grandpa that can't learn to use devices no matter what?? Everything I need in a man. Wears a slutty outfit but acts like he is all angelic and kind. Like- ✨sinful shoulders✨

Solomon- Sorcerer

Grandpa Sol. Can’t cook to save his like, Yor Forger level but even worse. Never eat his cooking, even Beel refuses to eat that monstrosity. Makes the most annoying dad jokes ever like stfu. Sussy Baka fr fr

Luke- cute baby angel

Simeon's adopted son, MC is his role model ( much to Simeon's dismay ) bcz my MC be unholy asf. Loves baking MC sweet things ( Luke pls can I marry your dad-? ) but hates when MC flirts with his father figure ( Isn't stopping me ) He is a chiwawa as per EVERYONE. Woof woof

Barbatos - Hot butler

The demon prince's hot servant, I like the butler kind. Would probably smile while insulting the shit out of you. WIll make you regret all your life decisions. Also has time manipulation where he can look into the future and stop it from happening by turning back time. The demon prince's father figure.

Could you please take me back to when I failed my math test and help me fix it-?

Lord Diavolo- Demon Prince

Demon prince, spoiled child, himbo, MC's source of secret income. When Lucifer doesn't let the MC or brothers do something they talk Lord Diavolo into changing Lucifer's mind. Biggest sweet tooth ever. Daddy Issues 2.0. Sugar daddy material, probably has a secret relationship with Lucifer.

Mc- Human

The most insane human being to ever exist.

[strandnreyes]

tagged by @alrightbuckaroo @carlos-in-glasses @reyesstrand <3

a little more than usual because it’s a nice and happy part for a change

“Alright, let’s go try this chocolate thunder brownie.”

“Do you think Mateo will kill me if I get something else?” Carlos asks as he gets out.

TK shoots him a look from over the top of the car. “Oh, please don’t tell me you’re one of those people who likes pistachio.”

“I wasn’t going to get pistachio.”

“It’s butter pecan, isn’t it?” he asks like he’s personally offended. “Carlos, you have to understand that that’s worse.”

Carlos ignores him, scanning the packed tables for an open one. Nancy seems to notice the problem, too. “Should we grab one while you order?” she offers.

“Sure,” Carlos nods, listening to their orders and then following TK to the line. 

“Maple Walnut? Rum Raisin?” he reads off the menu posted next to the window. “C’mon, which one of these monstrosities is your favorite?”

“They can probably hear you, you know.” 

“I don’t think that sixteen year old behind the counter will care too much that I think Rum Raisin is a bad flavor.” 

“What if that’s the one I want?”

TK stares at him, dead serious, and says, “I’m not buying that for you.” 

Carlos raises a brow. “I didn’t know you were buying it for me at all.” TK doesn’t say anything to that, still studying the menu, and Carlos adds, “I was going to get mint chocolate chip. Is that an acceptable flavor for you?” 

“Toothpaste?” TK looks disgusted and Carlos shakes his head, laughing. 

“You’re impossible,” he mutters until he sees TK’s grin that shows he’s just joking.

They place their order and TK pays for all of them without thinking twice. He shoves the rest of his change in the tip jar and then he and Carlos shuffle over to the pick up window. 

“I’ll take a bite of yours and maybe Mateo will spare me,” Carlos decides after TK actually ordered Mateo’s recommended flavor.

TK looks affronted as he pulls out a stack of napkins from the dispenser. “Who said you’re getting a bite of mine?”

“Payment for the ride.” 

TK purses his lips, a gleam in his eyes as he leans closer to Carlos and murmurs, “I didn’t know we had that type of arrangement, Carlos.”

“Shut up,” Carlos rolls his eyes, hiding his smile at TK actually mentioning their deeper relationship for once. 

The bored teenager chooses that moment to come over with four cones and they take two each, carrying them to the group and bending their legs awkwardly to sit down at the sticky picnic table. TK’s knee brushes against Carlos’ and it remains there all through Mateo’s interrogation on why Carlos’ ice cream is green and Carlos steals TK’s cone, taking a lick to say he tried it. TK pretends to be disgruntled with how unsanitary it is, but they both know that he’s not exactly a stranger to Carlos’ tongue.

They were one of the last ones in line for the day which means the place starts clearing out while they finish their ice cream. Carlos licks off the bit that dripped down his thumb and then smiles while TK tries to find the bit of chocolate on the corner of his mouth. Carlos has mercy on him and takes the napkin, wiping it away. 

It’s dark by the time they’re bidding goodnight to Nancy and Mateo and TK takes advantage of that, leaning over the middle console of the car to kiss Carlos. Their tongues swirl together in a mix of both of the flavors. 

As Carlos is about to break some speeding laws to get them back to the house, TK points him in a different direction instead. He ends up parked at the end of a dead end road overlooking the bay where TK clambers over into the driver’s seat as soon as the car is off. His elbow hits the horn, his head bumps the ceiling, and his knee comes too close for comfort for Carlos to be up for anything that’s about to happen, but eventually he makes it to Carlos’ lap, laughing as Carlos scoots the chair back and they fall into a kiss.

tagging @three-drink-amy @heartstringsduet @liminalmemories21 @rmd-writes @taralaurel @welcometololaland @hoko-onchi-writes if you’d like!

[nomsfaultau]

(Potentially) Daily ask №

PS. Potentially cause I probably won't stick to it

So, I was sitting on a lesson and then I realised that you allowed me to send you asks so I wrote out whatever questions came to my mind about Fault.

Wilbur edition!

His legs rearrange to be the highest individual in the room, yes? Is the hair or hats included in that? What if I wear an absurdly tall hat? Will he be taller than it or than my actual height?

He controls darkness or is darkness what I got out from your shitposts. What if I shine a really bright light on him. Okay but what if I go brighter. Or even brighter.

Do only his legs rearrange themselves to be taller? Does his torso stay the same? Does he occasionally look like a beginner artist who hasn't gotten the hand of proportions yet drew him?

If there's an illusion but he doesn't know it is one, will he be taller than it?

You said that he controls the darkness and all things that crawl in it. Moles technically crawl in the darkness. Can he control them? Mole pet when?

Would he and Nico di Angelo from Percy Jackson and the Olympus get along?

I've noticed that he doesn't get as much content as the other blorbos? Is there a reason?

The "Foreign no matter where he goes" post made me sad. The guy deserves a home even if his literal being won't allow it apparently. Can I hug him and how likely am I to die if I do that? Spontaneously hugging and asking first both possibilities included pls ^^

Okay that's all beeyeee

I am enthused to answer any questions and absolutely no pressure at all to ask them!

It goes to biological height not clothing, so a hat or stilts wouldn’t change his assorted height. Although doesn’t tend to count hair. It typically works mostly on humanoids who have matter but he can will it work on say The Blade, who at some point jokes that Wilbur’s height does not take into account his crown of bone-antler things. At which point yes it does screw you and it always has, mildly rewriting everyone’s memory of how tall Wilbur is. It’s a very mild and mostly useless form of magically controlled information.

He has a void on the left side of his face where shadowy eldritch monstrosities come out of. Wilbur can’t entirely control them especially when scared, but can give orders that may be followed or bargains that have to be followed but cost him something. They deffo get worse at night, and you’re on the money! The voidlings despise concentrated light. They do fine in normal light conditions, but flashlights and spotlights they don’t appreciate and will avoid, usually by fleeing into Wilbur’s face or risk dissolving. Wilbur himself is not harmed since he’s made out of flesh and bone (and arguably accurate organ arrangements). Hence the Foundation trapping it in very bright light 24/7. Godflame, which is what Philza is made of, is so anathema to the void that if it intersects with void shadow they both annihilate one another bc it’s a universal paradox to be in one place. Wilbur despises flashbangs in particular, but also doesn’t like complete darkness bc it can’t trust the void completely.

His proportions do not change at all! Which can look very silly. This is roughly its proportions when taller than The Blade.

(From casefiles again)

4. The height thing is not very controlled by him and would not work on an illusion. At which point Wilbur would like deduce the creature before him isn’t made out of matter.

5. It has some degree of control over shall we say capital Darkness that specifically comes from the void in his head and that are still connected by shadowy tethers to the void. Wilbur could potentially try to?? Manipulate the mole??? It would difficult as they don’t have a very robust language system but they are eusocial so I assume they have some level of communication. Since Wilbur can speak all languages it could potentially have rudimentary communication with the mole..? Honestly he’s more likely to eat it than keep it as a pet alas. He’s rather pragmatic, and feeding something that serves no purpose doesn’t make sense to a guy who’s spent most of his life on the verge of starving. Uh. Tommy excluded of course. 6. Well they’re both certainly edgy shadow guys for sure. Wilbur at least wouldn’t be racist to him once he realizes Nico is only half human. Potentially bonding over wrestling with powers, and not feeling like they fit in anywhere. Wilbur would probably think him stupid and gullible for falling for Minos’ manipulations tho, and wouldn’t cut him any slack for being young. 7. My focus on each of them sorta shifts around. I’m a bit on the Tubbo area atm though it’s about to transition to be more The Blade heavy. The first arc of section 2 was rather more Wilbur centric, with him on his own trying to defend the ‘kids’ and making some bad decisions in the process via deals with the devil. There’s lots of fun to be had with it in the future, particularly in section ~4 but also five main characters is a bit of a juggle sometimes. And also while SCP Wilbur feels distinct to me from the actual guy, it’s still sometimes hard to work with him because of his progenitor since I want the character to be fully unbiased when I’m writing it. 8. Part of Wilbur’s arc is to stop pretending it prefers life on the run and really does want a home. Not that living in a society is really possible, but it’s not called found family for nothing! It’ll have to be something made. And Wilbur is of a personal philosophy where he doesn’t kill anyone unless he thinks they’re about to kill him. Very golden rule, if often very vicious bc it doesn’t control the void completely. So, you’re very unlikely to die from a hug! If given a spontaneous embrace it’d probably be a little startled, but try to keep it brief since it doesn’t pass for human under close inspection and would prefer to avoid anything that could mean the Foundation finding it. If asked, he’ll probably calculate the risk of discovery versus social friction leading to greater attention, and accept the hug for appeasement. Since Wilbur really mostly hugs Phil, he’d likely find it surprisingly cold, and be perhaps too affectionate since he doesn’t know the typical level of affection for an embrace between strangers. It would probably be trying to gauge what gambit is being used by you, since it isn’t familiar/trustful of kindness from strangers. Suave and flippant on the surface, but mentally running around in circles trying to figure out what your angle is. Wilbur likes to pretend he’s always on top of things, but a combination of poor memory and lack of socialization mean he’s usually scrambling to figure out what’s happening lmao.

[mdhwrites]

What are your thoughts on those fans who bodyshame Belos? Keep in mind, he is the ONLY character in the show who gets this treatment, and almost no one calls out the fans who bully him for that. I don’t think they are aware of how many people they’re hurting by mocking everything about Belos’ appearance.

FUCKING WHAT!? I'm not familiar with this trend actually! As a 290 pound fat white dude though (who even when he's doing better hovers closer to 260 *sigh*), that fucking blows! Fuck those people! It's... also not surprising... Kind of because the show doesn't exactly refute the idea that those who are evil are also ugly. Now to be fair, that's frankly a tale as old as time in media, especially visual media. Kind of like dressing in black, it's just one of those ways to theoretically set your audience on edge about a character and amplify the fact that someone is a villain. Their monstrosity inwards is monstrosity outwards.

But that also feels like a trend that has been fading but TOH is not a very progressive show in a lot of ways and beauty is definitely one of them. I've made a blog about how all the good characters are fairly standard levels of beauty with Amity being portrayed as ready for the runway and even Willow is the definition of 'more to love'. Meanwhile it's bad guys are the demons and commonly on the uglier side. Even Hunter has the most 'abnormal' face amongst the main characters with his large nose and his scars but he started as evil and questionable to trust so... That doesn't help anything.

And this will bleed into a fandom, though I also want to be fair that besides making religious colonizer jokes... What does the fandom really have to work with with Belos if you don't like him? His appearance is effectively half of his presence and easily the thing that makes him the most intimidating. The animators pull a lot of work that the writing isn't quite keeping up with him in order to give him a menace? Want to knock him down then? Hit on his appearance so he doesn't look as scary.

But also... Belos is a good looking dude. Controversial opinion maybe but the dude is about the same body type as Hunter, a trained soldier, has a Hair Metal main and sure, his face is showing slight signs of age but the animators did a good job making him be able to have a warm smile and a kindness to it when talking to Hunter that wouldn't be possible if he were genuinely grotesque in anyway. The second he closes up the scar on his face and pulls his hair back into a ponytail in King's Tide, he looks ready to be a teacher in an anime.

Which I assume mostly happened because he's a main villain. He's not like Tibbles where he's a joke and Tibbles is fat. He's not a throwaway one off like the publisher who worked with King who is demonic. He's more important than that... Like Odalia. You know 'dem hips'. Even Alador doesn't look bad by any conventional means.

And as I said the last time I spoke of this: I like pretty people in stories. It is still an awkward element of the show though that it claims to be so incredibly progressive but that all of its villains are the ones with truly alternative body types and that it almost equates beauty with power in its subtext because we NEVER get an ugly opponent that we're supposed to take seriously or be afraid of.

I don't even think any of this is intentional, I'm not saying Dana is fatphobic or something. Again: I write pretty people in my stories because I like attractive girls and I do have a type, not because I dislike other body types. But when you have no true positive portrayal of the other, especially in a story 'celebrating the other' (in theory), it's not surprising if people make the sorts of jokes that bash on someone's appearance for only being an 8/10 like Belos instead of literal perfection. They are being unconsciously told to still mock someone who doesn't have perfect hair ALL THE TIME because the characters we're supposed to like are all conventionally attractive.

'The Other' looks like they're ready for a Vogue Fashion Shoot, why aren't you? *gags* Edit: I went back and forth to add this but I actually did do a story about body positivity. With the framing device I used, I decided nudity was necessary but everyone is 18+ and there's no sex in it. Just Luz trying to get comfortable with the idea of being undressed for Amity. Or that's what she claims at least to Boscha.

=========

I have a public Discord for any and all who want to join!

I also have an Amazon page for all of my original works in various forms of character focused romances from cute, teenage romance to erotica series of my past. I have an Ao3 for my fanfiction projects as well if that catches your fancy instead, If you want to hang out with me, I stream from time to time and love to chat with chat.

And finally a Twitter you can follow too!

[fortunatelychaoticphantom]

Highlighted Posts - Fandom Topics

For some explanation, see serious topics post.

Avatar the Last Airbender / Legend of Korra:

Aang, forgiveness and violence in The Southern Raiders (meta).

Aang’s (lack of a) character arc (meta) + same response, posted independently from the original chain post with a bit of revisions (meta).

Avatar, violence and last second anti-killing rhetoric (meta).

The actual advice the past Avatars gave Aang (meta).

Aang vs. Ozai final battle and Star Wars influences (meta).

The Great Divide is good actually (meta).

Aang being rewarded by the universe? (meta).

Third season Scorched Earth plan out of left field (meta).

Bloodbending and Energybending (meta).

Katara didn't have a “plot armor” in the final battle with Azula, she's the epitome of a warrior (meta).

Katara and non-lethal battle winning (meta/joke).

Katara didn’t beat Pakku (meta).

Katara didn’t choose Aang “over” Zuko (meta).

Anastasia!Zutara AU (headcanon).

Mai and Zuko, what should have been (meta).

Mai happily joined Azula to hunt Zuko (meta).

Kanna and Pakku... why??? (meta/joke).

Gender equality in the Fire Nation and WW2 equivalents (meta).

Legend of Korra, the status quo and the institution of the Avatar (meta).

Making Korra’s dad chief is just… awful (meta).

Harry Potter:

The Malfoys didn’t have a redemption in canon (meta).

Michael Gambon is great, you guys are just mean (meta).

Snape, Dumbledore and the Defence against the Dark Arts (meta/joke).

No thanks, I don’t need a young Snape movie (joke).

What Harry’s reaction to his name being pulled from the Goblet should have been (joke).

The Tri-Wizard tournament has no rules (meta).

Star Wars:

Star wars and Pirates of the Caribbean are the same story (meta).

Kylo Ren and redemption in the Star Wars universe and Hollywood [tlj post] (meta).

DC:

so... does Superman have an appendix? (joke).

Why Selina Kyle never goes to Arkham (joke).

The Scorpion King/Wonder Woman comparison (joke).

Marvel:

Infinity War and the horror of the snap (meta).

Who’s the avengers’ designer? (joke).

Black Panther and The Lion King similarities regarding women (meta).

Shipping in the MCU (joke).

Antman and family (joke).

Pirates of the Caribbeans:

Elizabeth and Will’s relationship is the heart of the movies (meta).

The best things about PotC (meta).

Disney:

I sort of wrote a one-shot about the bimbettes from Beauty and the Beast (fanfiction).

Belle in the Hunchback of Notre Dame (meta).

Del Toro, monstrosity and Beauty and the Beast (meta).

Inner Workings is amazing (meta).

Frozen’s Anna and Hans (joke).

Quasimodo is awesome (meta).

Around the world with Captain Phoebus (joke).

Pocahontas’ ending is subversive as fuck (joke/meta).

Hercules didn’t know who Hades was (joke).

Other:

Bullshit “feminist” retelling and Mad Max Fury Road (joke/meta).

“Feminist” retellings explanation (analysis).

She-Ra and the inherently good protagonist (meta).

I hate the ending of She-Ra (meta).

Once upon a Time, Regina and redemption (two diverging threads of the same post) (meta): First and Second.

Ross Geller isn’t that bad, you guys are just mean. Or: The unbelievable cruelty of what Carol did to Ross (meta).

Bella Swan and Hermione Granger comparisons are bullshit (meta).

Twilight and depression (meta).

New Moon reread comments (meta).

The Good Place is the greatest show in history. But also I have thoughts (meta).

The single most beautiful Geralt and Jeskier art ever made [The Witcher] (fanart).

Dimitri wanted to find the real Anastasia all along in hopes that she survived the revolution [Anastasia 1997] (meta).

Godzilla, Pacific Rim and Hollywood: between grim-dark and camp (meta).

Wednesday Addams and the usurpation of the summer camp for rich white kids (meta).

Debbie Jellinsky is the best [The Addams Family Values] (joke).

Achilles and Patroclus sitting in an urn. K.I.S.S.I.N.G. (joke).

Of course the Jewish women are the witches in Oz the Great and Powerful… (joke/meta).

Bird Box and mental illness (meta).

My problems with Carmen San Diego (meta).

Ice Princess and teenage movie tropes. Or: They're lesbians Harold (meta/joke).

Lord of the Rings life goals (joke).

The School of Good and Evil and that little bit of antisemitism… (joke).

Game of Thrones / House of the Dragon genetics are weird (joke).

Why wouldn’t I keep talking about old fandoms? (joke/analysis).

I hate Barbie. Sorry. (meta).

[orions-choker]

+:★:+* Chapter Four: Fight Fire with Fire +:★:+*

Warmth flickered across Y/N’s face as she leant over the plethora of lit candles. Her face barely illuminated in the dimly lit room. She smiled, pursing her lips and letting out a soft puff of air plunging the room into complete darkness. The silence that followed was short lived. Excited cheers filled the room as the lights were flicked on.

Y/N was confident in her abilities as a football player as she was tackled by a group of people. She stood sturdy, unsure of who was even surrounding her at the moment. “Happy Birthday Y/N!” was the exclamation from the chorus of people surrounding her. She pulled herself away from the suffocating embrace.

“Thank you! Thank you!” She called out with a grin. Another set of familiar arms wrapped around her, she smiled at the sight of the mop of blonde hair beside her. “Thanks James, you really didn’t have to do all this.” She hugged him back tightly before pulling away.

Her brother shrugged casually. “Don’t give me all the credit, you will be pleased to know we all planned this for you.” He pointed casually to the other three band members behind him who were currently surrounding their kitchen table grabbing booze. There were a lot of bodies packed into their house, most of whom she didn’t know. She assumed it was bands from the area, roadies, general drunk metalheads. She hadn’t made a whole lot of friends aside from the boys and her coworkers but she appreciated that they had invited so many people to celebrate her anyways.

“Surely just an excuse for them to all get shitfaced.” She laughed, wrapping her arm around James’ side and walking towards the collection of alcohol awaiting consumption. “Ironic considering I can't even buy this shit yet. “ she grumbled. It was the big 20. It was hard for her to believe she was 18 when she met all these boys who became her family, she had turned 19 shortly after their first tour and here she was now a year later spending another birthday with them.

Lars passed her a solo cup full of mysterious liquid he had prepared for her. “As if we ever need an excuse to get drunk.” He quipped. Y/N sniffed the drink curiously, her face twisting up as she was hit with an amalgamation of every liquor she could think of. She took a brave swig anyways. It burnt like liquid metal going down her throat, her whole body shivering in disgust as she pounded it back. She had to play catchup with the guys anyways, she was the only sober one at the moment.

As she pulled back from the drink she met eyes with a frowning Kirk. “You didn’t have to actually drink that dude.” He shook his head, taking the cup from her hand and replacing it with a cool beer. “You want to actually remember your birthday right?” He leaned back against the kitchen counter with a tight lipped smile. She had noticed him doing that a lot lately, she missed seeing his face brighter, missed seeing his cute teeth and the way they got caught on his bottom lip.

She shook her head with a giggle. “No, it's way more fun to have no idea what you did the night before isn't it?” She joked taking a sip from her beer, her shoulders relaxing as it washed away the taste of the previous monstrosity. “Kidding, Kidding!” She defended herself as she watched Kirk shoot her an annoyed glare. “Of course I don’t want to forget all the hard work you guys put into this for me.” She moved to stand beside him, resting her head on top of his shoulder.

Y/N shivered as she felt his fingertips scratch gently at her scalp, running his hand through her blonde locks. She mused that she needed a haircut as his hand reached her mid back, she never liked keeping it this long, too much hair to maintain and tease every day. “Then you better slow it down girly, why don’t you go get some of your cake, I made Lars promise not to get anything weird put into it.” He laughed lightly, his shoulders shaking and disrupting Y/N’s resting place against him.

She reached up, pressing her soft hand to the skin of his cheek and patting him gently. “And that's why you're my best friend, and my favorite.” Y/N missed the blush that settled across his tan skin as she turned to the table. Y/N was surprised by the amount of care that went into this cake, clearly they had gone to a real bakery for this one, rather than a shitty grocery store cake.

It was a gorgeous two tiered cake, plain white but in its simplicity it was pretty. She grabbed a piece and was delighted to find it was a vanilla lemon flavor. She smiled, turning around with a piece on her fork. She held it out wordlessly to Kirk and he dipped down, graciously taking the offered bite. His eyebrows raised as he swallowed. “That’s good, why am I surprised.”

Y/N took another bite with an enthusiastic nod. “Right!” She mumbled softly around a mouthful. “You guys really outdid yourself!” She smiled, her eyes twinkling brightly. She all but devoured her slice of cake before moving on to her third drink of the night. She had built up an impressive tolerance for booze after drinking with the guys for so long, but Lars’s initial drink had her feeling a little dizzy and silly.

Venturing into the crowd of people Y/N spotted a familiar head of long black hair, she lit up in excitement as she bounded over to the taller woman. “Steph! You made it!” She grinned, hugging the other around her waist. She and her coworker had become good friends in the year and a half she had been working at the bar. She pulled away, letting her hands rest on the hips of her friend as she looked up.

Steph looked a touch out of place, her clothes much darker than the rest, her hair teased and huge all the same but her makeup was thicker and heavier. Despite that she seemed to be getting along rather well with the people around her. She leaned down, pressing a kiss to Y/N’s cheek leaving a dark lipstick mark against her skin. “Hey pretty girl, happy birthday.” She pulled her close into her side, leaving Y/N with a deep blush. “Of course I did, I wouldn't miss this for the world, plus you're leaving me soon I needed some time with my favorite girl.”

Y/N keened at the words. Her little crush hadn’t gone anywhere that's for sure. Of course she was pretty sure she was hopelessly devoted to Kirk, it didn’t stop her from staring at Steph’s pretty lips every time they were near each other. It made working with her very distracting. “I'm sorry!” She pouted, her voice raised over the music. “It’s kind of a tradition for me to go on tour with the boys, I’ll be back home before you know it.” She assured her friend.

Feeling another presence beside her, Y/N turned to see Kirk, an awkward look on his face as he looked between the girls. She smiled at him, “Oh! Steph this is Kirk, Kirk this is Steph my work wife.” She joked. He turned and smiled at the taller woman.

“Ohhhh so this is Kirky.” Steph teased, using Y/N’s affectionate nickname for him. “I have heard plenty about you, pleasure to meet you.” She stretched her heavily decorated hand out towards him, her rings and bracelets gleaming in the light.

Kirk’s lips quirked up a bit at that as he gripped Steph’s hand in his own. “Oh really? What does she say about me?” He asked teasingly, his eyes darting to the side to catch a glimpse of Y/N’s horrified face. Steph opened her mouth to speak before Y/N reached up, clamping her hand over her friend's mouth.

“Nothing important!” She smiled tightly at Kirk. Steph playfully bit into the flesh of her palm causing Y/N to screech and pull her hand away. She frowned at the teeth marks left behind. “Girl what the fuck?” She looked up at her with a frown as she rubbed at the indents on her skin.

Steph cackled, something akin to a witch. “Honey that’s nothing, I’ll bite you harder next time.” Her grin held something more playful behind it. Her eyes unashamedly trailing across Y/N’s exposed neck and collarbone. “Catch you later, beautiful.” She said disappearing further into the crowd of bodies.

There was a pleasant heat underneath Y/N’s skin as she watched the tall woman walk away from her. Her trance only interrupted by Kirk coughing to gain her attention. His eyebrows raised curiously as he eyes the lipstick stain against her cheek. He held a pack of cigarettes in one hand as he gestured towards the front door with a nod of his head. Y/N nodded wordlessly, following him outside to their front yard, the chill night air embracing them .

“Sooo,” Kirk started, slipping the smoke into his mouth. “Steph was it? What’s the deal there.” He asked curiously. His hand came up to cup around his lighter as he lit the cigarette. Y/N still frowned as she watched him, a bad habit he couldn't kick but she didn’t bother fighting him on it anymore.

Y/N shook her head with a blush. “I know what you're implying, and no.” She said firmly, she pretended not to notice the way his shoulders relaxed. “Steph is like a mega babe, but she’s all talk, she has a boyfriend.” She explained dismissively. She leant against the outside of the house as she watched Kirk blow puffs of smoke into the air.

The red hot cherry of the smoke fell against the asphalt of their driveway as Kirk flicked it, his shoe coming down to stomp out the heat. “Is that the only reason?” He asked curiously. He had been the only person Y/N had been honest with her feelings about. She wasn’t 100% sure how well her brother would react to her being into chicks as well, or if he would really care at all. But Kirk held no judgment against her as her best friend.

“Hmm,” She thought for a moment. Even if Steph wanted her she was pretty confident it wouldn’t be enough to reel her in from her insufferable crush on Kirk. “No, there's other reasons, it's nothing more than a schoolgirl crush.” She nodded at him confident in her reasoning.

He nodded back at her with a reassuring smile, his hand came to rest on her cheek. His thumb rubbed at the skin removing the lipstick there. Like he had been waiting for that response. “Want to share those reasons with lil ol’ Kirky.” The playful teasing dripping from his voice had Y/N swatting his hand away, annoyed.

“Some things are better kept private even from you.” She stuck her tongue out at him. She watched as he finished his smoke, dropping his butt into an old coffee can they kept outside as an ashtray. He leaned forward, pressing Y/N further against the side of the house as she took a step backwards. His arms came forward to box her in.

Y/N’s breath hitched in her throat as he leaned down into her space. They were close enough that their air intermingled, a mixture of sweet cake, booze, and cigarettes. Her hands came up to press against Kirk’s chest, trying to keep some distance between the two of them. She laughed in confusion, her voice coming out high pitched and cracked. “Kirk the fuck you doing?”

He grinned down at her, Y/N couldn’t help but focus on the way his crooked canine gleamed from the corner of his mouth. “I was just thinking how unfair it is that you let that Steph chick bite you when you know how bad I’ve been wanting to practice being a vampire.” He cackled out his head dipping down lower.

Y/N’s brain short circuited as she felt the gentle ghost of his lips across the skin of her shoulder, and then a sudden zap of pain. He chomped down against her skin playfully. It wrenched a surprised screech from her throat as he laughed heartily, quickly stepping back to avoid a punch to the guts. “What the fuck dude!” Her face was bright red as she began her assault against his arms and chest with her fists.

Kirk’s laughter filled the air, head tossed back as he grabbed Y/N’s hands to stop her. Tears sprung to his eyes as he took in her flustered state. “Hah, oh my god you should have heard yourself! You sounded like a kicked puppy.” He was pleased with himself, Holding Y/N’s arms in place until she calmed down.

With a huff Y/N kicked at his shin. “You’re such a dick you know.” she grumbled. As Kirk released his grip on her. She rubbed at the now sore spot on her skin. “Thats so fucked up you bit me hard! Its gonna look like I have a fucking hickey you weirdo.” There was no anger or venom in her voice despite how hard she tried.

“Happy birthday sweetheart.”

[scoopssquad1440]

Got the Munchies E.M.

Warnings: Gross food combination, pining from reader, smoking weed

Prompt: Eddie has the grossest food combinations for his munchies. 

You couldn’t help the disgust etching its way onto your face as you watched Eddie make his way from kitchen cabinet to the fridge and back to the “masterpiece” he was creating on the kitchen table. His plate had a combination of green, red, orange, and something crunchy looking that you weren’t quite sure of the origin. His long curls fell down his back, smoking circling them from the blunt in his lips. His leather jacket and jeans were long forgotten in favor of soft sweatpants and a t shirt.

“Eddie.” You said calmly, though you weren’t sure if it was the weed or the breathing technique you did to distract from the monstrosity he was creating. He mumbled something to himself and reached into the cabinet once more, grabbing the plastic bag of marshmallows. “Eddie that looks disgusting.” You said, feeling the bubble of a laugh coming up your chest. Or was that nausea? “Sweetheart, this is the best idea I have ever had.” He moaned; marshmallow stuffed into his cheek as he popped a few more into the mystery sauce. “Who knew ketchup, chocolate syrup, and a can of olives could be so orgasmic?” He scooped more up with his marshmallow and shoved it into his mouth.

You and Eddie had spent a lot of time in his trailer, smoking and watching movies. And by watching movies, you were totally making fun of them and reenacting scenes with makeshift costumes and props. The movie would be long forgotten as you created your own story. Eddie was the only person you felt comfortable enough to be yourself around. He didn’t mind your weird habits or humor, in fact, he embraced it. You felt safe with him. That’s why you agreed when he mentioned smoking pot together.  

“Y/N, I think we should get high together.” He had said, pushing your locker shut. Your surprise was painted on your face, “Are you fucking with me, Munson?” He squirmed a little on his feet, his lips straightening into a line, “No. I just… I know what your first drink was like and I didn’t want that to happen the first time you smoked. I figured…well I don’t know.” He was losing his confidence. You could practically see the rejection preparation oozing off of him. “Eds,” you bumped him, “I would smoke with you. I’d actually prefer a pro show me the first-time round.” You joked, kicking at his shin lightly. Your first drink came to mind, thinking of the party with blurred memory and the now ex-boyfriend forcing shots on you. His shoulders relaxed and you could barely here the intake of breath as he processed your words. “O-Okay…Okay!” he said, suddenly very excited. He shoved his hands in his jean pockets, smiling brightly. “I can’t wait to see my best friend high for the first time.” He joked. You couldn’t help but feel a slight pull in your heart as he said best friend. He was your best friend, but you wanted him to be your best friend and more. He offered this warm comfort, like hot coffee when you walked home in the snow, like coming home after a stressful workday, like…well like home. Like Eddie.

The bell interrupted your thoughts and Eddie perked up, “Ah, get to class. Can’t have both of us failing.” He smirked, leaning forward to leave a kiss on your hairline and bounding off toward his class. With a silent scream, you rested your head against the cold metal of your locker. Why does he kiss you so casually like that? Has he no mercy for your ever aching heart?

That’s how you ended up in his trailer, watching this horror show. He had shown you how to grind the plant, roll it into paper, and how to properly inhale so you didn’t suffocate. The first few hits were difficult to grasp, but you got the hang of it. “There you go, good girl!” he had praised. You weren’t sure if it was the warmth of the high or your unprofessed love, but that did something to you. You weren’t able to take another hit without thinking of his words and likely you would think of it every time you smoked in the future.

“Y/N you’ve got to try this.” Eddie whined, holding a marshmallow covered in grey sludge and black chunks of olive. “Absolutely not, Munson,” You gagged, pushing his arm away fiercely, “That looks like a war crime.” Your nose wrinkled as you caught a whiff of the offensive treat. “If this is a war crime, lock me up for life, baby.” Eddie cheered, devouring another marshmallow. You grabbed a few plain ones from the bag, popping them into your mouth. “You’re deranged, Eddie,” you said through a mouth full of fluff, “but I love you anyway.” You said you loved each other all the time. It wasn’t new. Ending a phone call, dropping you off, walking you to class…You guys always said I love you. But you meant it entirely different than this friendship. “I love you, too.” Eddie said, coming closer. The plate of mystery sauce was left on the counter, and he pulled his finger in his mouth to suck some of it off. For fuck’s sake, why was that so hot to you? Even with the war crime sauce?

“How’s your first high?” he asked, leading you to the couch with the bag of plain marshmallows. “I don’t really feel all that different,” you mused, “just relaxed. And I feel light. And happy.” He smiled brightly at that. “That’s exactly how it’s supposed to be.” He murmured, bringing his hands behind his head and breathing out as he looked up at the ceiling. “Much better than drinking honestly. I feel like I have control over myself” you commented. You watched him twirl one of his curls around his finger. You couldn’t help but notice the lazy smirk on his face. God that smirk.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, his eyes turning to you. “You.” The word slipped from your mouth before your brain could even catch up. Your eyes went wide. Shit. His cheeks turned a light shade of pink and his smirk deepened. His voice had a hint of self-consciousness as he quipped, “Little ol me?” A sigh fell from your lips. The fuzzy feeling from the high was starting to fade and with it, your confidence. “Yeah, you. Just really like you.” You shrugged. You weren’t technically lying. His face falter a little in confusion, but was still smirking. “like me? I would hope so, you’re my best friend.” That hurt more for some reason. You couldn’t help the sinking feeling in your stomach and the hot feeling in your face like you were about to cry. You took a deep shaking breath and a tear started down your cheek. “Sweetheart?” Eddie said, concern dripping from his voice. He scooted closer to you, his hand coming down to your arm and grabbing your hand. You sniffed and rubbed your face harshly. Why did you always have to complicate things? “It’s nothing, just having some feelings.” You lied. “Obviously. Care to share with the class?” you could tell that you had blown the cover. “I just. I like you. More than my best friend. I feel safe and happy with you. And I don’t want to fuck this up.” You couldn’t help the word vomit coming from your lips. You sat up straighter, your knee bouncing anxiously. Eddie listened intently and politely. “I want to be your best friend. I love being your best friend. I want to be more, I want to be with you and kiss your stupid face and be your muse for music. I know that’s silly I just. I can get over it, just give me time.” You concluded. Tears were freshly dripping from your eyes and you finally looked up at Eddie. He had a pondering look on his face. “Were you going to let me contribute?” he asked. Your eyebrows furrowed and he moved closer, his knee bumping your thigh. His ringed fingers brushed your cheek, “I’ve loved you since you first walked into 10th grade English and schooled everyone on Little Women.” He smirked, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours. Your brain could hardly compute. You kissed him deeply, inhaling everything you have been missing out on these past years. It was everything you wanted. This beautiful crescendo of lips finally crashing and tattooed arms wrapping around your waist. It was home. It was Eddie.

“Eddie.” You mumbled against his lips. He mumbled and pressed harder against yours. “Eddie. You taste like war crime sauce.”

[enigmaticdrblockhead]

Looking Forward to the Abyss

(I felt inspired to write a spooky XF mini-fic for Halloween. Apologies.) @xffictober2022

SUMMARY:

A case gone wrong.

——— x ———

She knew. She’d known for a while now, but it seemed she grew tired of waiting for him to prove her wrong and decided to take the initiative.

His former self would’ve probably found this amusing. To be honest, his current self did a bit as well: ‘a fox, a Maggie, and a priest walk into a bar…’

But to be honest, he was more annoyed than anything else. He never could stand religion, and yes he now acknowledged the hypocrisy that his faith in ‘the truth’ was without a doubt a warped sense of religion for him, and he surmised that it was that part of him that understood and at times appreciated Scully’s conflicted nature; both the scientist and the catholic. But still, this was different; a feeble attempt at an exorcism he would guess.

Sorry Mrs. Scully, I skipped on lunch today so no green vomit I’m afraid.

He was; however, not annoyed by their expressions. Similar to prey in the near clutches of a predator, perhaps they could see the error, the miscalculated step they had made.

His eyes, non-blinking since all three joined together in the room, held little glimmer of light, only shadows of a forgotten, ancient, abyss. While he couldn’t bring himself to smile at the absurdity, he could feels the edges of his lips curl back away from his teeth in a snarl. Then as quickly as what little emotion he felt enter his mind and body, it quickly evaporated.

“Do you know what hell is?” His voice soft, but with a textured quality to remove any pretext of sincerity. He watched their shocked faces become somewhat perplexed, but didn’t wait for a response.

“No you don’t. You think hell is fire and brimstone. A place where ‘bad people’ go and pay for their sins. Where horned figures wrapped in red flesh dance as the damned scream in agony.

“It’s not that. I know, I’ve been there. Many times in fact. Hell…is everywhere. Hell is an abyss, devoid of light, heat, cold, love…of anything really. Hell is your darkest fears made into reality, where your nightmares are your only source of comfort, and where your mind is warped and shredded to the point where there is no hope of regaining your sanity.

“People think when you die, you go to heaven or hell. But people never think about what happens if you come back.

“Well, Mrs. Scully…I do. Because I did die, on a case. They killed me, and they foolishly thought to bring me back. They were religious too…although…”

He couldn’t help but smile now. It was a joke and he knew the punchline. How could he not smile.

“They worshipped a different entity, I’m sure you can guess who based on our meeting. But when they brought me back, I was different, that’s how they wanted it. You see,”

His voice had taken on an odd and out-of-place jovial quality now. His affect seemed to lift and brighten; it really was a good story after all.

“I think, they were trying to summon a demon, but…they actually brought ‘me’ back. Not that they knew. I was different. At first I didn’t know who, or what I was. A monstrosity, they hid beneath the floors in the basement. When they could they’d bring in someone, maybe two. With each person I consumed, I gained a larger understanding as to who I was.

“As I feasted on their corpses my body and my mind shaped back into something more familiar. But it only made it worse, I wanted to be myself again, but it came at the cost of devouring another. With a Joe, I could walk again. A Susan, speak. A Dana…”

He paused and his face fell. This was the hardest part of the story, even if it did have a happy ending.

“I was so close, so close to being me again. But they brought her. I couldn’t do it! I couldn’t!!!! But the darkness inside me could. I begged to God to kill me and to save her, I begged to my captors to let her go and that I would take double, no triple, the lives if they would just let her go. But their response was silence.

“Except for her. She didn’t believe it at first, of course not. But she saw the scrawled markings and warnings laid by my previous victims: to hide before sundown. Before I changed. Before I slaughtered them.

But there was nothing she could do. Initially she tried to find an opening, some way for us to escape. And in that process found a video recorder, apparently one of my former victims was on vacation and was recording their trip. And in their desperation, must’ve recorded their final moments… She saw it… I saw it…

“Despair. That’s what I think hell is. And that’s where we were. I didn’t know what else to do, but she did, she always knew. She sat me down and held me in her arms. Sobbing and stroking my hair, she said she loved me. And I loved her. That’s why, I did what I did.

“Yes Mrs. Scully, I killed your daughter. I tore into her flesh and consumed her mind, body, and soul.”

He saw their faces twist and contort into confused horror, but again he refused to wait for their response.

“But unlike the others, when I was done and I came back and those fools released me… I prayed… one last time… This time, my prayer was answered. He brought her back, all I had to do was sacrifice my captors in His name, which I was all to happy to do. And I have to say, their flesh was incredible.”

He couldn’t help but lick his lips.

“And as promised, she was back. But even better, she had no memories of what happened and no hint illness or disease in sight. I can’t count how many people I killed that night, or since then, if I’m being perfectly honest. And I don’t regret it…not one bit.

“But by all means Mrs. Scully and Father…I’m sorry I didn’t get your name; by all means sing your hymns, say your prays, perform your exorcisms…it won’t work. I’m not a demon, I’m Fox Mulder.”

[civilization-illstayrighthere]

ooooo uh... desire, hide, and monster for either V or Vaultie... or both, if you want to get Wild about it? 👀

Haha I’ll do a mix!

desire: What's one thing your OC wants more than anything in the world? Are they open with that desire? Why or why not? What would they do to fulfill it?

Vaultie: An absolute cure for his loneliness and his sense of never belonging. Never exactly fit in the Vault, but the sudden ripping of his family figures away and then subsequent banishment further cemented it as a need. He’s roundabout with it in that he tries to make himself perpetually useful; he tries to always position himself as helpful, as good. And don’t get me wrong, he bought Charon’s contract out of a sense of moral duty, but he kept it because deep down he knew it meant he wouldn’t have to ever unwillingly be alone.

hide: What does your OC hide? Why do they hide it?

V: Hm. In a way he hides/downplays his shiv origins. sort of: his majority blackout/geometric tattoos are coverups for a shit ton of stick and pokes he previously had over his body, though the facial skull marks are actually a very clear flag of his Shiv days; it’s a rite of passage. And he flip-flops back and forth on it. He could get expensive full-body realskin grafts, but he doesn’t. He reaps some benefitss from being a merc associated with a raffen shiv clan known for ruthless pillaging and cyberware piracy, but he is always quick to mention he’s an ex-nomad, no longer tied whatsoever. He has fully renounced his family, and in some way if he’s going to be known as dangerous, as ruthless, he wants it based on his own laurels at least.

monster: Is your OC monstrous in any way? Is there something that makes them monstrous? Are they aware of their own monstrosity? Do they accept it or reject it?

V: he does have a distinct lack of seeing humanity in many people. I think the amount of killing he does and what he grew up around makes it very easy for him to discard that when dealing with gangoons, with people he doesn’t particularly like. He compartmentalizes very easily. He realizes his own monstrosity; in a way he accepts it, makes the usual werewolf nomad jokes, but in another there’s a part of him that really does yearn for— maybe not softness. But the kind of relaxation most beasts cannot afford. He’s tiring. (I think this ties in with the Shiv thing— he owns his monstrosity and does think he will always be a dangerous creature, no matter if he were to strip himself down to the studs or not, it’s in his blood… while also kind of secretly wanting someone to still try and pet him, knowing that he still may bite.)

Thank you!! :3 ( not-so-nice OC asks )

[thetrashbagswasteland]

Oh tolerance tested looks like it’ll fuck me right up

Oh ho ho this one WILL So this is actually like the only bit of my "canon compliant" shep's (Colonist/War Hero) backstory that I've ever put down in writing, yeah, this is the one I call [REDACTED] and who's not far off being feral in her own special way. It's unfortunately Garrus POV shakarian in the making lmao. Tolerance Tested has been stalled for ages and at this rate I might cannibalize it to use in Follow My Lead and various other stuff.

Late night, somewhere after the headlong sprint of their assaults on Feros, Noveria and Therum - missions that blended together in an endless parade of horror and bloodshed - but before the sucker-punch that was losing kin on Virmire, the team had gathered together in the mess hall to share a drink - or five - and bond.

“I’m still surprised you saved that Rachni.” Wrex rumbled, tiny eyes not narrowed in anger that would have been well deserved considering the Krogan people’s own history with the terrifying, scuttling monstrosities. “I wouldn’t’ve…”

Shepard shrugged, one fingernail absentmindedly tapping the side of the glass bottle in her dominant hand. “She seemed sincere in her promise to do better, I can’t condemn a whole race based off something I barely know about.”

“You could have asked any of us, you have no assurances that she will follow through on her promises after all.” Liara murmured, shuddering slightly at the thought of the Rachni queen, even though she had chosen not to join them on that mission, unable to face what her mother had become.

“Potted histories and old grudges don’t improve relations with anyone.” This time, she frowned. “I can’t judge someone based off how some of their species have acted.”

This time, it was one of the humans that felt the need to scoff. Dark hair, a chip on her shoulder towards everyone but a name which gave meaning to her distrust of him in particular - Williams. “Commander you of all people should know that some races-“

She was cut off sharply as Shepard stood jerkily, the movement like a subconscious attempt to remove herself from the situation. There was a silence so thick it could have been cut with a knife as, to the confusion of the non-humans, every one of the alliance crewmembers tensed. Seconds passed, Shepard seemingly disentangling herself mentally from something unpleasant, and Williams tried again, this time in a far smaller voice. “I mean - you - uh - you were on Mindoir, you saw what they are li-”

Again she was cut off, this time verbally. “Chief, I was on Mindoir, and last I checked, you weren’t.” Her green eyes were colder than the deepest ocean, voice shaking ever so slightly from a fury she didn’t let out. “I was on Mindoir and that’s why I don’t judge any race. That’s why I don’t condemn anyone.”

It was Tali, of course, who sought to remove their commander’s frigid fury from her chief gunnery officer. “Mindoir, wasn’t that the human colony that the Batarians attacked in 'seventy?”

Shepard’s gaze snapped over to her and, for a second, the young quarian seemed to shrink back. Then, just as fast as her head had turned, Shepard’s anger drained away into quiet, humble honesty. It was well done, Garrus had to admit. Whilst he wouldn’t have put his neck on the line for the baseline insubordinate and often openly xenophobic woman, Tali was far more empathetic. Added to that, Shepard was fond of the kid and as such, profoundly protective of her in the way that self-appointed elder siblings always were; If anyone could redirect Shepard, it would be her.

“It was. I- I was there.” Shepard admitted, voice soft and eyes a thousand light years away. “I was just a kid and I- we lost everything. We had a farm there. I only survived because the slaver who found me decided to let me hide instead. Told me to remain quiet and tossed a ration pack into the grain silo I was hiding in. I stayed there for five days, until I heard voices - human voices - outside.”

“He... let you live?” Joker asked, clearly fishing for verbal confirmation to what they all had interpreted.

“Yeah.” She replied, and her voice seemed to have made the trip to join her eyes a thousand light years away, back on Mindoir and back in time. “For a long time, I thought he wanted me to suffer - to lose everyone and hurt from that but… I realised eventually, he was able to let me hide because I wasn’t screaming, even though everyone else was. He could pretend he didn’t see me and, well, I get it now. I was angry when I was younger, but once I joined the Alliance and got my face trampled into the dirt too, I realised that he was just another footsoldier following orders he didn’t agree with. Kinda hard to view whole races as black-and-white when you’re only alive because one of your species’ greatest enemies took pity on you.”