#battle vest build

[eddiemunson-reader-shame]

My labor of love is finally complete. ❤️

This is a wearable piece of art that I made over the course of months. I meant it to be ready in time for Halloween, but that never manifested.

I tried to make this as screen accurate as possible, mostly because that’s the cosplayer in me wanting accuracy. However, this jacket was a lesson in imperfect perfection.

Being as Eddie Munson himself is an imperfect but still beautiful person, that’s what I went for with my jacket. I wanted to make something that might not be too cookie cutter, but that has history— as well as love and dedication— behind it. I didn’t want to fuck up the sleeve of the leather and put chains on, but I think maybe one day if I find the right kind of chain, I will add them.

The Levi’s Trucker Jacket, the Schott leathers, the Accept button, the Judas Priest pin, and yes, even the Last In Line back patch, are all authentic vintage items I found. I had a mini heart attack with the Dio back patch because I know some metalhead out there is screaming at me for defacing a piece of history, but I had a moment where I thought of all the real metalheads of the olden days who ripped up their shirts to hell in the pit and wore the scraps proudly on their own vests.

And then I didn’t feel so bad when I thought of them, because I knew this item was going to be an art piece that has deep, personal significance to me. I had a Marie Kondo moment where I even thanked the shirt for being part of my art, and for being a significant contributor to something that has personal meaning to me.

I also loved Dio before I liked Eddie, so I’m entitled to make a battle vest with good old Ronnie James’s merch. Bite me.

While working on this piece, I felt so much excitement and pride. Maybe the same feelings Eddie would have felt while making something totally badass. Putting it on feels not only like donning battle armor, but it also feels like a warm, comforting hug. My battle jacket has totally become my new weighted security blanket.

In my delusional little mind, I may sprinkle it with a little bit of Old Spice, have my grass smoking friends blow a little loud on it, and I might even buy a pack of Camels myself just to rub a bit of tobacco in it. Although, that seems a little much, but I must have been a Disney Imagineer in a past life because I dig little details like that.

[mixpunk]

This is your sign to make your comfort plushie a battle vest!

I can post/make a tutorial or let you know where I got the materials if anyone would want to

Closeups of the vest itself below :)

[chiimeramanticore]

ROBOT HUSBAND ACQUIRED

[lunamugetsu]

Danny is a house husband.

That's it, that's all it is.

As the years went on. Danny retired from being a superhero. There was no need for Phantom when the GIW were dealt with and all the ghosts were under control.

Now what's left for him to do but to just sit back, relax, and finally be able to live his life.

Sam and Tucker on the other hand....

Well, they had plenty of pent up rage, wits, and chaos inside their mind to become villains.

But they had one rule.

Never bring work home and to never involve Danny in any of their supervillain business.

Okay that's technically two rules, but they're kind of synonymous especially since Danny has been taking care of their house while also entertaining himself with trying new hobbies.

Tucker and Sam both make sure that they never bring any of their villainy home to Danny, because all they want is for Danny to enjoy his happy hero retirement.

And Danny in turn, doesn't bat an eye when watching the news and seeing that there were magical plants that were attacking sites that oil companies were digging or that somehow Lex Luthor had lost five hundred million dollars and had somehow leaked records showing he was building weapons of mass destruction.

He also doesn't bat an eye when he sees that Tucker had brought home a telescope that definitely looks like it came from some fancy lab because hey, Tucker was making him an observatory so he can look at the stars and planets. While also how they were able to make a great gaming pc with computer parts that are definitely not sold in stores, because hey at least the newest update of Doomed wasn't lagging.

Or that Sam comes home with various plants and animals that are definitely not from planet earth, but hey the three headed wolf-lizard-eagle- hybrid thing (that Danny has affectionately named Fluffy) is pretty great at keeping the pests away from his vegetable garden and likes to eat any of Danny's new food creations and is a great playmate for Cujo.

So you can imagine how the Justice League thinks when dealing with the pair of new villains: Upload (Tucker) and Sam (I could not think of a villain name that would suit her, so it's up to you what you think her villain name would be)

And how they were currently wreaking havoc in the city either by cyber warfare with robots or by magic plant monster or a Frankenstein of both approaches. The heroes had all evacuated the civilians from the battle zone and are currently fighting a losing battle. When they've been effectively captured and restrained by the two. Right before the villains could go into a monologue, they hear a person clearing their throat.

Everybody looks to see a 25 year old man wearing a sweater vest (he made it himself, thank you very much) currently holding onto the leash of a giant glowing green dog and some kind of giant animal hybrid. The man's arms were crossed and was currently not sporting a very happy look on his face.

Tucker and Sam (looking at Danny with hesitant smiles): Hi honey.

Danny (frowning): you missed our anniversary dinner.

Tucker and Sam both pale as they quickly realized what the date and time was.

The league all watch as Sam and Tucker immediately start apologizing to the man that just walked into a battle zone.

Danny (still frowning): Hmph! I guess since you two didn't want dinner you can go back to your little fight. Don't expect me to make you any lunches for the next month, and since you two are having so much fun here, you'll be sleeping by yourselves for the next couple weeks.

The league all watch as they were let go as Sam and Tucker yell as they run after Danny yelling apologies as he was walking away from them.

This is not the last they see of Danny.

When Danny is displeased with either of his partners, he'll invite a hero over to have lunch of afternoon tea.

[deadghosy]

Can you do more Hazbin Hotel x enderman reader? I'm obsessed with it. I love the idea.

Credit to the person who made the art, this is just how I imagine Enderman!reader to look like as a human. 🦆✨

MORE HAZBIN HOTEL X ENDERMAN! READER IMAGINES/HEACANNONS

imagine how reader is when they get pissed…they would just straight up punching shit just like the Enderman hits you in Minecraft 😭

I Imagine Charlie trying to make you do a eye contest with Alastor only for you to start tweaking and punch Alastor into a wall as Alastor only gives up a thumbs up while you sweatdrop putting on your blindfold as you try to pull out Alastor from the wall

I headcannon reader to always pat everyone’s head when they are at their full height. But at 6’5 they just pat their back like “good job buddy😐✨”

Imagine Lucifer and you wearing matching shirts that say, “if lost return to big boy” as your shirt says “I lost big boy”

Headcannon that Angel is your cuddle buddy because he likes how your arm is basically a pillow for you. And husk is your second cuddle buddy because of his fur and you like to pet him.

I imagine Angel trying to make you wear pink only for it to turn black when it fits your body. Angel gave you a “🤨 are you fuckin serious?” Look as you just shrugged with a “😐” face. I mean shit, if it fits. It fits.

I headcannon Enderman!Reader’s suit to be like the art but instead of those black things on it. It’s just slight purple sparkles on it to represent the purple pixels around them.

But definitely their second fit is a black vest and a white dress shirt with black slacks and black dress shoes. 🤨☝🏾 W FIT YOU GOTTA ADMIT!

Yk how Angel made that Snapchat post about you and you got death threats? Yeah well Valentino was the reason as he got mad that Angel “wasn’t paying” you as you were just working on the hotel

I imagine Enderman! Reader to be black coded just like how the art is above as the reader’s hair is always in dreads, cornrows, and twists. But never in an Afro state as it takes time to get the hair nice and soft (coming from a black writer….it literally takes an hour…)

I imagine you once teleported during your cuddle session between husk and angel. They were so confused they even searched your room only to find out you teleported on the top roof of the hotel during your sleep.

I imagine Valentino at least trying to ambush you to see why Angel is so happy to come to the hotel to see you again. Only for you to teleport out of his view every second. And the moth dude is like “shit! He’s onto me…” but really you are just bored asf and need some fresh air from the hotel air.

I can see nifty just minding her business when you lifted her up and croaked softly petting her head and sitting her down.

I headcannon Enderman! Reader’s room to be built from those block in the end so reader can feel the presence of his home in the hotel💗🦆

I imagine Velvette actually getting able to like post you on her fashion account as a mysterious person with your blindfolded looks. The girls dig for guys who seem mysterious.

Imagine Lucifer and you making each other building hobbies, like he makes you build him a duck as he makes you a sleeping mask just incase you don’t want to stare at someone’s face without your blindfold.

Headcannon on how fat nuggets like to cuddle against reader’s legs as reader was making a bed for fat nuggets to have a heater installed if the pig is cold.

Like…bro IMAGINE READER BENG SO PISSED THEY SUMMON THE MOTHER OF ALL…THE GUARDIAN OF THE END…THE ENDER DRAGONNN (dun x3 dramatically) maybe they would summon that during the battle between the angels and absolutely destroy their asses

I headcannon Angel once seen your mouth glowing purple when you unhinged your jaw to screech. He definitely asked before checking out your mouth which he could see in the back was glowing.

Since I headcannon enderman! Reader is black coded. They have a bonnet that was shipped from Velvette as they put it on and felt more comfortable sleeping ‼️💗

Who would be the first one to respond to you calling them: Lucifer, Charlie, Angel dust, husk, nifty, Alastor. And specifically in that order 🦆

I headcannon for Vox to try to always have you on his night show so he can show off his new “guest” being a new specie of demons.

I imagine sinners asking what ring (7 deadly sins) you came from and you are just like. “The end….i came from the end..” and now they are more confused than you when they asked where you came from

I headcannon reader’s nickemame is like, “ENDY, tall one, handsome, [actual nickname], weirdo, cutie, dad, fucker, bestie.” You can imagine who called you who which is kinda obvious…

I imagine Adam to make a lot jokes about you saying how freaky you are and how weird you are for not liking eye contact without your blindfold as you just stand there like “what’s for dinner…😐”

I can see you showing the egg boiz a picture of a ender dragon egg making them think they can have someone like them but also just like you

I can see you just standing there as everyone argues in the court because Charlie wanted you there since you don’t seem like a demon or angel. She tried to get answers but no one knew what you were.

Imagine modern au! Angel dust and you do tiktoks….because Angel dust forced you to be in his tiktoks as the others just watch trying to enjoy their summer vacation

I can see Adam hating how you aren’t pressed about what he says about you as you just stand there ignoring him.

Imagine you being sick and everyone stopping to make sure you are okay. (except for Alastor as he knows you will be better soon) Like the whole crew just starts to baby you and try to fix things you can fix but only fail.

Imagine reader with a baby ender dragon as a pet as reader whistle for the dragon to land on their shoulder or appear more bigger for it to protect you and the crew

I headcannon reader’s singing voice to sound decent with a little bit of deepness in it to mask out some things.

I imagine your full form if you were a demon or angel obviously an ender dragon lol 🦆

Imagine Pentious just pure on slithering around your body as you just sit down after a rough day of complaining by residents and their rooms.

I headcannon Lucifer to get on your shoulders to feel bigger for fun which make it seem so cartoony as one has a derpy smile while the other has a thumbs up and a “😐” face just staring blankly into people’s soul

[our-trans-punk-experience]

THE BATTLE JACKET MASTERPOST

FINALLY PUNKS IT'S HERE

a battle jacket (also called battle vest, cut-off, punk jacket, patch jacket, and probably other stuff) is a jacket (duh) usually made from denim or leather with DIY additions of patches, studs, flags, painted panels, chains, and other bonuses, used to signify subculture. Punk, metal, and biker scenes all use patch jackets, but I'll only go into specifics about how they're used in the punk scene. Metalheads, I think, almost solely personalise with music/band shit. Bikers use them to signifying which club you're riding with. Punks started using them in the 70s and they've remained a staple of the subculture's style since. They're good for signalling your politics, bands you like, and other information you might want to get across. They also look cool.

HOW TO START

If you're here I assume you wanna learn how to make your own so I'll cut the history lesson short and get on to the practicals.

1: first you're going to want to get a plain jacket, probably denim or leather, but you could get a canvas jacket if you're nervous and new to the scene because it's way easier to stitch canvas, so you could experiment with that as you're building confidence. The jacket should be at least a bit oversized because with all the stitching and painting or whatever you'll be doing, you could run into fit issues with a very form fitting jacket. also, this jacket might frequently be worn over other jackets or layers so that will help with that too

2: start making choices. namely whether you want to keep the sleeves. obviously you can remove or reattatch the sleeves later but I think making that big mod first is a good starting point to help you feel like it's a work in progress. so if you're going to chop the sleeves I say do it now

3: brainstorm. I know, I know, coming up with your own ideas is hard, but this is your own totally literally unique piece, so think about what sorta look you want

4: you don't have to brainstorm alone though. search tumblr or pinterest for punk jackets, punk patches, punk clothes ect for inspiration. you might get a good idea for an individual patch, or for a broader layout

PATCHES

1: the big deal. this is what will make your jacket into a battle jacket. there are some unofficial rules/sayings in the scene about what sort of patches you should put on your jacket. some people get dickish sometimes about if you put a non-punk band on your jacket? however i think that is bollocks and you should do whatever you want forever. one saying i do personally mostly stick to is "politics up front, bands on the back" with the idea you stick your politics on your front so you can see the punches coming

2: where do you get the patches? you make them yourself. You can buy ofc but don't get shit off amazon or shein or whatever the fuck. If your fav band or small artist is selling patches go for it though. You will have the most choice if you make your own patches. Do you have scrap fabric (maybe the sleeves of the jacket, which is where i got a lot of my patch material)? Do you have paint and paintbrush? good. you can make a patch

3: how do you do that? well depends on whether you stencil or freehand. stencil means you cut out an outline, of say a band logo, out of card, and use that as a stencil. freehand means you paint whatever tf you like

4: paint?? yes paint. messy as you like. start maybe with simple slogans or symbols often found in the punk scene like "ACAB" or "eat the rich". maybe an anarchy symbol. i also like to paint a layer of mod podge over my designs to waterproof them.

5: great, you've got a patch, what are you going to do with it? sew it onto the jacket. unless ofc you bought an iron-on in step 2, in which case iron that shit on and be careful punks. most likely though, you're sewing it on. a lot of punks use tooth floss to sew on because its cheaper, easier to find, readily waxed and waterproof, and does a better job sewing shit down onto heavy duty material like leather or denim. I use a combined running stitch and whip stitch personally

STUDS n SPIKES

1: all those punks you've seen have metal sticking out their jacket eh? yeah, theres a whole lot of options here. spikes of many different sizes and shapes, which within that can be stitch on, screwback, or have fold down prongs on the back of them

2: where do you put them? probably the front or top of the jacket. you can put them on the back but that might be uncomfortable, or rip up someone's upholstery

3: where do you get them? you can still DIY these by cutting up a metal drinks can [whole other post] but BE CAREFUL. i suggest checking out the internet for these, same buying rules as patches though. no shein. no amazon.

OTHER SHIT??

1: go wild

2: other common additions would be chains, lighter caps, badges, and can tabs

HAVE FUN PLS ASK ME QUESTIONS AND SHARE IF YOU START A BATTLE JACKET

[nomie-11]

Between Worlds

masterlist!

synopsis: When a shimmering portal pulls you into the magical city of Piltover, you forge an unbreakable bond with Caitlyn Kiramman, a curious girl who shows you her glittering world. Years later, the portal reappears, but the Piltover you return to is darkened by war, and Caitlyn is now a cold, battle-hardened general. As you struggle to rekindle your bond and navigate the city’s buried secrets, you must confront the scars of time and war to rediscover the magic you once shared—and the promise you made to return.

pairings: caitlyn kiramman x reader

You had read Narnia when you were six, everyone read it at some point in their childhoods where you were from. You had read Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, and The Magic Treehouse, but magic wasn’t real. Magic was a thing of stories, a world that didn’t exist and a medium that wasn’t possible. But this, shimmering, shifting, living entity in your closet was magic. 

It looked like an iridescent web, shifting and gurgling every time you reached your hand toward it. It acted as if it would like to swallow you whole, to transport you to another world, another dimension. 

But still, you couldn’t resist reaching out and brushing your hand against its pearly white colors. You touched first with one finger, then pressed another one down, until your whole hand was flush against the entity in your closet, and then you pressed your arm into it, up until your elbow. 

It happened all at one. A pull—sharp, yet soft—like the tide dragging you into an ocean of light. You couldn’t scream, couldn’t think, only tumble into a spinning abyss of sound and color. When the world stopped tilting, you landed hard on your knees, your hands sinking into something cold yet soft. Grass. 

Looking up, your breath hitched. This wasn’t your room, your world. The sky above was a shade of blue more vibrant than you’d ever seen before, streaked with clouds that looked almost painted. Strange, towering gold buildings jutted up all along the skyline, their surfaces glimmering like glass. Even the air smelled different—sweet, electric, and sharp. 

You turned, your heart hammering. That’s when you saw her. 

A girl about your age stood a few paces away, her wide, curious eyes locking onto yours. Her hair was a cascade of deep indigo, tied neatly, and her clothing—a tailored vest and high boots—looked straight out of a storybook. 

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice crisp yet cautious. 

For a moment, all you could do was gape. How were you supposed to explain? Your clothes—a plain t-shirt and jeans—felt glaringly out of place, as if the entire world had turned to stare at your modernity. You opened your mouth, closed it, and tried again. 

“Are you a princess?” 

“A princess?” She echoed, tilting her head. 

“Yeah. A princess, like from Disney, or… England!” You snapped your fingers, hoping she would know at least what England was, even if Disney didn’t exist in this… universe(?) you had somehow fallen into. 

“I hate to be rude, but I’m not a ‘princess,’ whatever that is,” she replied, her lips quirking upward in a faith smile as if amused by the strange terminology. “My name is Caitlyn Kiramman. And you… well, you’re not from Piltover, are you?” 

Piltover. You repeated the name in your head, trying to place it on the map that hung on the wall of your homeroom. Piltover, piltover… Piltover doesn’t exist. “I’m… not sure where that is. I mean… no. I’m not from here.” 

Her eyes scanned your clothes—your jeans, sneakers, and the faded cartoon character printed on your shirt. She looked utterly perplexed, but there was no malice in her expression, only curiosity. 

Before you could explain further, a deeper voice interrupted. 

“Cait, who is this?” 

An older man approached—a man with kind eyes holding a box of gadgets and cogs. You stiffened under his gaze, shrinking as you struggled to piece together a coherent explanation. 

“Jayce! She’s…” Caitlyn hesitated. She glanced at you, then back to him. “A traveler. I found her in the garden. I think she might be lost.” 

The man frowned but didn’t press further. “Come on, let’s get the two of you home. Your mother will know what to do.” 

—--------------------

The days that followed felt like something out of a fever dream. Caitlyn’s family assumed you were from a distant, eccentric city. They marveled at your strange dialect and unfamiliar clothing, but chalked it up to ‘cultural differences.’ 

Jayce, the older man Caitlyn was friends with, seemed weirdly interested in the Nintendo DS you had stuffed into your back pocket, asking how the screen worked and how the game played, despite you not knowing because you had bought it at a store and didn’t build it yourself. When you asked if he had a cell phone so you could call your mom to pick you up, he spent 20 hours interrogating your over cellular data and wi-fi and what a phone number was. 

And Caitlyn? She became your guide, your lifeline to understanding this glittering, bewildering world. She showed you the bustling streets of Piltover, the towering spires of the academy district, the clockwork marvels that hummed and whirred like living creatures. She laughed at your questions and called you “peculiar” with a warmth that felt like sunlight breaking through clouds. 

But as quickly as it began, it ended. 

One morning, you awoke to find the shimmering portal in Caitlyn’s room—a mirror to the one in your own closet at home—pulsating with light. A whisper in the back of your mind told you it was time. Time to go back. 

Tears burned in Caitlyn’s eyes as you explained. She argued at first, begging you to stay, but deep down, you both knew it wasn’t possible. 

“You’ll come back, won’t you?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Promise me.” 

“I will,” you swore, linking your pinky with hers (another thing you had taught her one day when you made her promise to save you a cookie at lunch). “I promise.”

But promises made by children are fragile things. 

—-----------------------------------------

Years passed in your world, though they felt strangely muted. After stumbling back through the portal into your closet, you’d collapsed on your bedroom floor, clutching at your chest like you’d left your heart behind in Piltover. Your parents found you hours later, dazed and rambling about ‘clockwork cities’ and a girl named Caitlyn. They assumed it had all been a vivid dream, a figment of your overactive imagination spurred by too many fantasy books. 

At first, you fought to hold onto the memories—scribbling sketches of golden spires, random doodles of Jayce’s kind eyes and his gadgets, charcoal drawings of Caitlyn’s smile and the warmth behind her blue eyes. But as days blurred into years, doubt crept in. Had it been real? The glow of the portal, the hum of the streets, Caitlyn’s hand clasped in yours—was it all just a child’s desperate attempt to escape the terror of reality?

Life continued. Schools, jobs, growing up. Yet something always felt missing, like a part of you had been carved out and left in a faraway world. Your friends talked about travel, of finding their heart in a foreign country or a far off place, but no country on any map called to you. 

It wasn’t until you stumbled upon the cave during a hiking trip—its walls etched with shimmering patterns—that the memories flooded back. The portal stood before you, alive and beckoning, just as it had all those years ago. 

You didn’t hesitate this time. 

The pull was familiar, a spinning rush that left your stomach in your throat. When you landed, the air smelled of oil and smoke, sharp and acrid, and so different from the sweet electric scent you remembered. The skyline of Piltover had changed—darker, more imposing, with huge spheres rising up out of pillars, airships being shot into space with a beam of blue light. 

Clutching the strap of your hiking back, you made your way down the familiar streets of the once golden city down to the Kiramman estate. But as you rounded the final corner, your steps faltered. The once-grand house stood as a fortress now, its once open and ornate gates replaced with cold, closed iron and armed guards. 

You hesitated, lingering in the shadows as unease crept up your spine. This wasn’t the home you’d left behind. The Caitlyn you knew wouldn’t need walls to protect her. What had happened to Piltover?

Before you could decide your next move, the sharp clang of metal boots echoed behind you. 

“State your business,” an enforcer barked, his rifle trained on you. 

You raised your hands, stammering, “I’m looking for Caitlyn Kiramman. Please—I knew her years ago.” 

The enforcer’s face hardened. “You’re trespassing. Come quietly, or we’ll make this difficult.” 

Fear prickled at the edges of your mind, but before you could protest, a voice sliced through the tense air. 

“Let her go.” 

The enforcers immediately straightened, their weapons lowering as a figure emerged from the shadows behind the iron gate. 

Caitlyn. 

Or at least, the woman she had become. 

Her indigo hair was tied up into a perfect ponytail. Her once curious eyes were colder, her posture rigid in a crisp uniform adorned with medals. She was taller, her presence commanding and distant. The girl who had laughed with you under Piltover’s painted skies was nowhere to be found. 

“Take her to the station,” Caitlyn said without sparing you a glance. 

Your chest constricted. “Cait, it’s me!”

She paused, her expression flickering for a split second before the mask of authority returned. 

“Take her,” she repeated, turning on her heel. 

You struggled against the enforcers as they dragged you away, shouting her name until your voice was hoarse. But Caitlyn didn’t look back. 

It wasn’t until hours later, after being confined in a holding cell in Piltover’s industrial heart, that she finally appeared again. This time, she dismissed the guards before stepping inside, her boots clicking sharply against the cold floor. 

“Who are you?” she asked, her tone detached, but there was a tremor beneath it—a crack in the facade. 

“It’s me,” you whispered, stepping forward. “Don’t you remember? The traveler who stumbled into your garden? The one who promised she’d come back.” 

She flinched, just barely, but enough for you to notice. 

“You… remember me,” you said, hope threading through your voice. 

Her jaw tightened. “It doesn’t matter. That was a lifetime ago. Whoever you think I was, she’s gone.” 

“No.” Your voice shook, but you stood your ground. “You’re still you. You’re Caitlyn Kiramman. You’re the girl who taught me how to climb the academy steps without tripping. The girl who shared her sweets even when I didn’t ask. The girl who pinky-promised to save me a cookie at lunch. You’re still her.” 

For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, almost imperceptibly, her shoulders slumped. The mask she wore cracked, and for the first time, you saw the weight she carried. 

“I waited,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “For years, I waited. But you didn’t come back and things changed. People died.” 

“I couldn’t find the portal again,” you admitted, tears welling in your eyes. “I thought it was gone forever. I thought maybe… I imagined it all. But I didn’t, and I’m here now.” 

Caitlyn’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. “You don’t understand what you’ve come back to. Piltover isn’t the same place you left. We’re at war and I’m the leading general. I’m not the same person.” 

“Then let me understand,” you said, stepping closer. “Show me.” 

For a long moment, she simply stared at you. Then, slowly, she reached out, her fingers brushing against yours. 

“Maybe,” she whispered, “it’s too late.”

request for @multi-muse-transect <3

If you enjoyed this one shot, please check out my other series!

[mercuryspit]

Payneland outfit changes after Hell

Post canon Edwin who’s overcome a large part of his trauma surrounding his mortal life and death and can finally experiment with some other outfits/accessories than his school uniform. He starts wearing sweater vests with pretty plaid patterns, long straight leg slacks that lengthen his body, cloaks with arm slits that make him look extra elegant and smart, and soft kerchiefs tied around his long neck framing the column of his pale throat.

Maybe Charles starts to notice, and he compliments Edwin every time. He thinks it’s aces that Edwin feels comfortable enough to mix it up. Maybe Charles also starts experimenting with his own corporeal appearance, because if Edwin can he can too. He adds more pins to his lapels and his bag of tricks backpack, maybe he makes himself a battle vest with a cool bleach painted agency logo on the back panel, he could start tying random scraps of flannel around his knee or elbow and insisting they had some kind of functional use.

And maybe, at some point, they start to coordinate. Whether intentional or unintentional they begin to mirror each other’s outfit choices.

Charles, who starts wearing sapphire encrusted rings when Edwin adds a gold plated ruby pocket watch to his usual accessory line up. Edwin can sometimes be seen with a broach on his coat with the painting of a dark brown eye lined with kohl against warm brown skin like his grandfather used to wear, and Charles now has a silver chain around his neck that has an emerald tear drop jewel dangling from it.

And they will sometimes revert back to their norm of course, you can still catch Edwin on a night in at the office dressed up in his white dress shirt and blue sweater vest, with his sleeves rolled up while snuggled up with a book laying in the arms of the boy he feels most comfortable around. That boy who’s dressed in his bright red polo and jacket because he swears that, ghost rules be damned, he can still feel the memory of the cold chill brushing through the office building. He knows that the jacket helps, but he thinks the boy in his arms helps too.

[xxsycamore]

FEATHER TOUCH

╰┈➤ You had a rough day, and Victor is here to make it all better... even if his techniques of making you laugh are quick to lead to other things.

Victor/f!Reader • rating: E (MDNI) • tags: Feather Play; Tickling; Pillow Fights; Neck Kissing; Teasing; Light Sadism; Slight knifeplay; Begging; Multiple Orgasms; Vaginal Sex; Creampie; Aftercare; Post-sex Cuddles • wordcount: 2,464 • masterlist

a/n: Credits for the idea go to @candied-boys !! Thank you!!

Visions of Temptation 2024/KINKTOBER DAY 6: Feather Play

"So, my darling Robin…Now that I've got you where I want you, all cute and vulnerable underneath me... I think it's about time we indulge in the naughty things I promised you earlier today, don't you think?"

You smile nervously at Victor, nodding in the middle of a shiver as he crawls closer to you on the queen-sized bed. You're already backed against the headboard with no room to escape - not that you're trying to, oh no. It's just that you can't help this quickening heartbeat that makes you feel like a cornered prey about to be devoured. Victor is not unlike a beast. His facade might fool you into forgetting his hunger, but this only heightens the adrenaline of being seconds away from getting under his claws.

With knees pressed to your chest, you feel the cold headboard against your naked back; the luxurious negligee Victor bought for you not caring to cover much of your skin to begin with. Victor had discarded his coat, vest, and shoes by the time he climbed at the end of the bed and started approaching you, with his three uppermost buttons undone and leaving his cleavage exposed to your gaze in his crawling position.

And now his shadow falls on your form, and you close your eyes in anticipation, ready for him to pounce on you, have his way with you, anything he wishes - but instead of his torso, what is being pushed against your chest is-

"A p-pillow?"

"We're having a pillow fight! Yaaay!"

Yay?!

The weapon entrusted to you - now that you recognize the pillow as such - has to act as a shield first, as you barely react fast enough to block an upcoming attack from your eccentric boyfriend.

Now, you might be confused, but that doesn’t mean that you'll just let him beat you at this!

You grab into the pillow you've just successfully prevented from hitting you and throw it right back at Victor. He's moving backward and rising to his feet now, as if that would make him any easier to miss, with that huge build of his. You only get more motivated, taking the risk of standing up to your full height ontop of the bed, carefully grounding yourself in the softness of the mattress while aiming for your opponent. It's nice to be higher than him for once!

"Prepare yourself, Victor!"

Dashing towards the sofa at the other end of the room, Victor sweeps all of the cushions for himself at a fast speed before hiding behind the piece of furniture. You're prepared for his upcoming attack but it still nearly knocks you off balance, so you're quick to crouch down - and grab the rest of what ammunition is left near the headboard.

Victor has a lot of pillows on his bed. It's a bed fit for a king, almost, silky and luxurious all over. Sleeping by his side here greatly improves the quality of your sleep… But that has more to do with the man himself rather than this bed.

And now that you've discovered another way of having fun in said bed, you can't help but enjoy it to the fullest. You don't even know how it got to this, with the rapid change in the mood brought by Victor's deceiving actions, but you don't mind it. It's something to be expected while with him, it's part of why you love him so much.

You get so into it, that once Victor leaves his guard wide open, you throw the pillow so hard at him it ends up bouncing off the sofa it hit instead. You're laughing, and so is Victor.

Suddenly he's ontop of you in a curious change of battle tactics, and you're squealing between laughs, and Victor repeats how he's caught you, in his usual loud tone.

And there are…feathers all around.

Since when did this game turn so rough?! You feel bad for the torn pillow but Victor hates it when you pay attention to such trivial things... so instead you just chuckle with noticeable guilt in your tone that he hurries to address.

"I told you we'd get a little naughty tonight. We made a mess!"

You can't help it, rising up one more time and doing a little spin with the torn pillow still in your embrace. Victor watches you with a joyful smile, opening his arms to welcome you when you come back down to him. The slight bounce-off when you fall down knee-first makes another squeal fall from your mouth, but it's soon muffled by Victor's kiss.

He lays you down and leans over you, blocking the chandelier light with his wide frame. Feathers dance in the air around the bed, and you're hazy with your north and south trading places again, the whole thing looking almost dream-like.

Victor taps your lips with his index finger.

"There's this smile I love to see!"

Warmth fills your chest as you realize how much you've been smiling all this time. After the stressful day you told him all about, with another gruesome mission you shared with Crown's members, Victor must have been dying to put you in a better mood.

Your chest aside, it's your cheeks that are getting hot now. Because you totally assumed he wanted to put you in a better mood by pushing you into his bed and-

"No, no, don't stop smiling now! Or I'll have to use even naughtier methods!"

What is that even supposed to-

Before you can fully identify the unfamiliar sensation at your neck, the reaction of your body is to immediately jump because of...being tickled.

"Ahahahah! Victor, what are you—"

"Cootchie-cootchie-coo! Sing for me more, my Robin!"

You look down to see him manipulating a feather between his long fingers, flickering it across your exposed skin. He moves down to your belly where the gossamer parts in two and leaves you open and vulnerable all the way down to your panties.

The tickling sensation is especially powerful there, and you try to play-protest against the merciless acts, trying to disarm him while tears gather in the corners of your eyes. As if there aren't hundreds of other feathers he can make use of, scattered all around the two of you...

"Ahaha— It's like— It's like you did one of your magic tricks and released a b-bunch of birds in here! Ahahaha!"

Victor chuckles at your joke, but it doesn't break his concentration on finding new targets for his teasing. Up your arms and grazing by your armpits, he ends up at your chest again, and more especially, at your neck.

"Nghh-!"

The feather is lifted off you for a second, and your eyes snap open, realizing that the last noise that Victor plucked out of you wasn't exactly a laugh. He doesn't remain ignorant of it either, judging by the pause in his actions.

A pause that proves to be brief, because in the very next second, he's renewing his attack.

"Ahh— Victor—that's—"

I'm sensitive here, is what you're probably trying to tell him. But of what use is that piece of information when he already seems to know?

"My dear Robin… You'll have to forgive me. Here I had my pure intentions about making that beautiful smile bloom back on your face, but now all I want is to ruin it."

The shiver that runs down your spine suddenly has little to do with the touch of the feather. You search for Victor's jelwel-like eyes, and see them darkened by something dangerous. Something you know way too well.

"To… ruin it?"

You pretend to be clueless, but the way your glistening lips part is not exactly a provocation, not yet. You're genuinely curious to know where this leads.

Victor's large hand moves up your torso - his touch much firmer than the feather's - until he finds and squeezes one of your breasts.

A small gasp leaves your lips, as he takes his time ghosting over your chest before nudging the thin strips of your negligee off your shoulders.

You get the hint and try your best to assist him in your lying position, but then you shudder at the sudden feeling of cold metal on your skin. Does he keep a dagger on his person...?

Before you have a chance to vocalize your reaction, the strips of your negligee are cut by the dagger's sharp edge; followed by the ribbon holding it together in front of your chest.

"I'll buy you another!"

The sing-song tone of his voice is unfit for the obscene act of undressing you by cutting your clothing to shreds. Still, it's those antics that remind you of what he's capable of, never to be underestimated.

Now that your breasts are bared for him, he returns to the feather, much to your dismay.

By the time he brings it in contact with your skin, you're already squirming. He lifts it off, and you still do, and he chuckles at you.

And when he brings it down on your nipple, only then do you understand about the ruining of your cheerful expression. Contrary to before, the feather's touch can't bring laugher to your lips anymore.

They only open to moan and whine. The barely-there touch of the feather still manages to stimulate your nipples into hardened peeks, but it gives little to no pleasure in its wake. Your feet kick at the sheets, at each side of Victor, as he'd settled himself right in between your legs, your panties already discarded with another slash of the dagger.

"Vic—…tor…!

The man above you simply circles and follows the forms of your breasts using the feather, alternatively stroking your pebbled nubs until you throw your head back from frustration.

"Is something the matter, my darling?"

"I want more! Please!!"

"Oh?" Victor exclaims, propping himself up on one arm as the other keeps maneuvering the feather over your heated skin. "You want more of this?"

Your brain screams no, knowing that Victor perfectly well understood what is it that you want more of, with it certainly not being the feather, but nothing comes out of you besides another needy whimper.

"Look down at what I'm doing to you. It's reaaaaly erotic."

Biting onto your bottom lip, you raise your head a tad, focusing your eyes on the same thing Victor is looking at; the tip of the feather slowly makes it down across your stomach again, and then further down, until reaching your pubic mound.

Bracing yourself is futile, as the unfamiliar sensation hits your bundle of nerves at once and makes your whole body squirm again. Victor seems to be enjoying himself. He flicks the tip of the feather on your overly sensitive clit, all swollen and beginning for a firmer touch, and coos at your reactions.

"Aww, my poor Robin! Is that too much already? How am I supposed to play with you when you're begging me to give you everything I've got?"

Arching your chest for Victor's eyes, you can do little more than beg, hearing that the sweet reward for letting yourself be played with is in sight. You need him now.

"Victor, please- Please make love to me— touch me, fuck me, do something! I can't take it anymore!"

The borderline sadistic Queen's Aide smiles sweetly at you. No, you don't want to call him sadistic, not when he's fully capable of sending you straight to the heavens with his touch, to spoil you for hours on. Images of him nestled between your legs serve as tantalizing reminders of his thorough ministrations to pleasure you. But even in those moments, there's a pinprick of relentless teasing that has no other name but pure, addictive sadism…

In a flash, the feather is discarded and completely away from your sight. Victor's hands replace it; a generous payback as they map out and cover every inch of skin it touched. But they're oh-so-much broader, firmer, hotter, everything that the feather failed to provide. So much that your breath quickly grows erratic, and your body stirs again.

Victor domineers over your senses, touching you fully now, just as you wanted.

The shuffle of clothes coming undone is barely audible through the suckling noises of Victor's mouth at your neck, but they give you a rush of excitement that has you tugging at his shirt to get it off of him even faster.

In the next moment, the blunt head of his sizeable hardness nestles between your folds, pressing and rubbing against your clit, and you feel yourself teetering at the edge.

Victor notices this, chuckling and giving you a quick kiss before he resumes the action, this time with purpose. He rubs he head of his cock into your clit, never quite sliding lower, never close to slipping in, until you're left coming undone at the stimulation.

"Ahhh—!! Nghhh- No— I need you inside-!"

Despite your protests, you ride out a very satisfying orgasm that finishes with Victor's tongue prodding at your lips again. You let him in and share a long-drawn kiss with him.

"Who said you won't have me?"

You barely have time to gaze back into those shimmering eyes as Victor thrusts into your seeping wetness, slowly but steadily bottoming out inside you.

"Nghhh!!"

With the preceding teasing, everything that led to this, it makes the feeling downright euphoric. You find it hard to care about the volume of your moans anymore - and Victor has done a meticulous job making you give up on that habit of yours, a long time ago.

It's not long before you sense the pace of his hips getting out of rhythm, and you only sink your nails harder onto his glorious back muscles, daring him to fill you up right now.

And he does; in a single deep thrust that makes you feel him in your guts, warmth explodes deep into your pelvis, wave after wave, as he fulls you up with his virile seed.

Minutes past by as you lazily answer his kisses, getting lost in the chaste touches of your still intertwined limbs. Soon he changes position to spoon you instead, pressing his long limbs against the back of yours cozily.

"Post-sex cuddles time!! Yaay! Oh…I guess all the pillows are on the floor…"

You chuckle at Victor. Then you full-on laugh at him, no feathers being at fault.

"Here. I have an idea."

A simple solution comes to mind, and you maneuver his arm until his bicep is right under your head, allowing you to nestle onto his arm.

"I'll let you use my own body as a pillow later… If I don't fall asleep by then, that's it."

"Ahaha! I tired you off a lot, dear Robin, so that would only be fair!"

Taglist: @arsnovacadenza @kimi00twin @g-kleran @thesirenwashere @devonares @galaxyprison   @starshards26 @thewitchofbooks @acethephoenix256 @ikevamp-shrine-2 @nad-zeta @crystal13unny @lordsister @ikemen-banshou   @themysticalbeing @otome-scribbles @rhodolitesrose @kpop-and-otome @queen-dahlia @kisara-16 @chaosangel767 @ikemenlibrary @queengiuliettafirstlady @aurora-morning @ikemenlover24 @mcofthemansion @joy-the-reader @katriniac @ikemen-writer @tele86 @lovely-bubb1es @aria-chikage @babyblue0t7 @rhodoliteschaos @shrimpy-kitsune @nightghoul381 @xbalayage @lucyw260 @kittygrimm88 @lokis-laugh @natimiles @completelyshatteredbrokenmschf @groovylita Let me know if you want to be tagged/untagged!

[steadyposttrash]

FORCEMASC ARCHETYPES: A AESTHETIC GUIDE.

If you want to look BADASS, try:

- 60s Bikers/Greasers.

Look/Clothing: Leather jackets, ripped denim, motorcycles boots, bandanas, tattoos, aviator sunglasses.

Personality: Rough-around-the-edges, self-sufficient, rebellious.

Signature Details: Leather patches, distressed patches, studs; motorcycle accessories (gloves, belts, chains); slicked-back hair.

- SHARP (Skinhead Against Racial Prejudice)

Look/Clothing: Shaved head, combat boots, bomber jackets, suspenders, high-waisted pants, minimalist tattoos (e.g., skulls, symbols of working-class pride).

Personality: Confident, defiant, unapologetically independent. Skinhead culture (non-political) often represents solidarity, strength, and working-class roots.

Signature Details: A minimalist yet powerful look. Solid color palettes (black, navy, red). A focused, no-nonsense attitude and silent confidence.

- Street Fighter/Boxer

Look/Clothing: Tight tank tops, sweatpants or cargo shorts, athletic sneakers, gloves, a hoodie or jacket tied around the waist.

Personality: Disciplined, focused, powerful, not looking for trouble but ready for it. This archetype is all about building physical strength, resilience, and most importantly: always be emotionally controlled and mature. Fighters aren't bratty children.

Signature Details: Boxing wraps or wrist tape. A fighter’s stance (shoulders back, fists clenched). Scarred hands or knuckles as evidence of past battles.

- Viking/Axe-Wielder

Look/Clothing: For a more acceptable and modern look, opt for clothes made of thick, durable fabrics — wool, twill, etc; long/bushy beards, with accessories accordingly, or stubble; long, styled hair, and if you don't want hair, opt for a shaved head with scalp tattoos.

Personality: Calm, controlled, protective. A real Viking knows when to use his strength properly, without unnecessary waste. Abandon the primal and raw side of things.

Signature Details: Warrior tattoos or Nordic symbols, broad (talk or not) physiques, prioritizing strength and functionality over aesthetics; scars that speak of experience.

- Military/Spec Ops

Look/Clothing: Camouflage, tactical gear (vests, gloves), combat boots, and military-style jackets with patches. For a more casual, everyday look, try military pallete (khaki, sand, brown, green, gray, blue;) compression shirt, henleys, polo shirts, bomber jackets, camouflage pants, cargo pants, chinos, bermuda shorts, belts with large plaques, massive watches, aviator glasses, decorative shoulder straps and themed decor. Keep everything simple, stylish and practical.

Personality: Calculated, disciplined, no time for fluff. Military style is about precision, strength, and resilience, with a quiet but dangerous aura.

Signature Details:A straight posture, calm yet alert demeanor. Efficiency in movement, no wasted gestures. Quiet confidence and assertiviness.

If you want to be the LIFE OF THE PARTY, try:

- Jock

Look/Clothing: Athletic wear, varsity jackets, fitted t-shirts, sports caps, sneakers, and sometimes a wristband or watch with a sleek design.

Personality: Confident, fun-loving, competitive, and outgoing. It's all about being the natural leader, constantly encouraging everyone around them to have fun, compete, and win; and have communication skills to de-escalate if things get out of hand, without running away.

Signature Details: A wide smile, always ready to throw out a friendly joke or challenge. A swagger or fluid movement that shows confidence and ease. Engaging others through playful teasing or inviting participation in games. Party-ready, always including everyone, no matter what those people are like.

- Don Juan

Look/Clothing:Tailored suits or casual high-end clothing (think button-ups, polished shoes, perfectly groomed hair).

Personality: Charismatic, charming, with a magnetic presence. This person draws people in with a mix of humor, flirtation, and smooth conversation, always making others feel seen and important.

Signature Details: Constant eye contact and subtle, suggestive smiles. Perfectly timed compliments or witty remarks. A confident walk that seems to say, “Everyone's attention is mine when I want it.” Always making others feel like they're the most important person in the room.

- Party Animal

Look/Clothing: Bright colors, funky patterns, oversized shirts, chunky accessories, bold sunglasses, and a messy but controlled look (think party-ready outfits with a carefree vibe).

Personality: Outgoing, fearless, always the one to spark up a conversation or start a dance. He knows how to have fun and make sure everyone else is having the time of their lives, too.

Signature Details: Bouncing from group to group, always with a drink in hand and a big laugh. Dominates the dance floor or any party game, never backing down from a challenge. Non-stop energy, never letting the vibe die down. Always finds a way to get people involved, creating a contagious atmosphere of joy.

- Class Clown

Look/Clothing: Casual streetwear or something comfortable (like graphic tees, hoodies, and sneakers) with a mischievous sparkle in the eyes.

Personality: Funny, light-hearted, always cracking jokes. He's the one who lightens the mood with humor and antics, knowing how to make people laugh even in serious situations.

Signature Details: Always has a sarcastic or playful remark ready. Body language that’s exaggerated for comic effect—big gestures, playful mockery. A laugh that's infectious and makes everyone else around them want to laugh. Constantly making people feel like they’re in on the joke.

- Social Butterfly

Look/Clothing: Fashion-forward, tailored for attention but not too flashy—polished casuals like well-fitted jackets, jeans, stylish boots, and accessories.

Personality: Outgoing, diplomatic, and masterful in managing social dynamics. He's never alone for long, always weaving between groups and making connections wherever they go.

Signature Details: Always has a kind word for everyone, making them feel like they belong. Keeps the energy flowing by introducing people to each other, facilitating conversations. A genuine interest in others, always making people feel like they’re the center of attention. Constantly surrounded by people, with a natural ability to keep things light and engaging.

If you want to look HELPFUL/DEPENDABLE, try:

- Caregiver

Look/Clothing: Comfortable, functional clothing—practical jeans, shirts, and sturdy shoes. They might wear a simple, clean jacket or vest, with a few practical accessories (e.g., a utility belt or a watch).

Personality: Compassionate, nurturing, and always ready to lend a hand. The Caregiver is the archetype that people depend on for support, whether it’s emotional, physical, or practical. They are the ones you turn to when you're in need of reassurance or help with a task.

Signature Details: Always the first to offer help, whether it’s with a personal issue or a task that needs doing. Active listening, making others feel heard and supported. Steady and calm in stressful situations, able to offer practical solutions and advice. Displays an innate desire to care for others, often putting others' needs before their own.

- Protector

Look/Clothing: Functional and tactical—often dressed in simple yet sturdy clothing, like cargo pants, boots, and a jacket or vest with multiple pockets. Practical, easy-to-move-in clothing that suggests readiness.

Personality: Loyal, strong, and reliable. He's the one who stands by their friends and loved ones, offering support and taking action when others need it most. They are dependable, steady, and often the go-to person in crisis. Basically, a White Knight.

Signature Details: Always looking out for others, constantly aware of the well-being of those around them. Willing to step up to ensure safety, security, and comfort. Consistently reliable, rarely backing down or abandoning someone who needs them. Offers protection—whether physical, emotional, or mental—in a way that makes others feel secure and valued. A little more blatant than the Caregiver.

- Mentor

Look/Clothing: Professional, often dressed in smart casual clothing—clean-cut shirts, blazers, or simple sweaters paired with jeans or trousers. Looks polished, but not flashy.

Personality: Wise, experienced, and patient. He helps others grow by sharing their knowledge and skills, offering support, and always being there to guide when needed. They are the steady hand that helps others navigate challenges.

Signature Details: Offers advice and wisdom without imposing it on others, always leading by example. Patient and calm, with a deep understanding of people’s needs and goals. Takes time to explain and break down concepts to others, ensuring they fully understand. Empathetic and consistently available to offer encouragement and practical guidance.

- Fixer

Look/Clothing: Practical and no-nonsense clothing—often in work-ready clothes like jeans, flannel shirts, or basic t-shirts. They may carry tools or gadgets to assist in solving problems on the fly.

Personality: Problem-solver, pragmatic, and reliable. He's always there when something needs to be fixed, whether it’s a broken system, a personal issue, or a practical problem. They have the ability to think on their feet and find solutions.

Signature Details: Quick to assess problems and offer tangible solutions, even in stressful situations. The “go-to” person for solving practical issues—whether it’s fixing something around the house or solving a work-related challenge. Steady and dependable under pressure, offering calm and composed help when things break down. Willing to dive into a problem and fix it without hesitation, often working behind the scenes to keep things running smoothly.

- Listener

Look/Clothing: Casual yet intentional clothing—comfortable, low-maintenance outfits like hoodies, jeans, and sneakers, with an approachable, warm appearance.

Personality: Compassionate, understanding, and always present. He's dependable in an emotional sense—they’re the person people turn to when they need someone to talk to, without judgment or interruption.

Signature Details: Always present when someone needs to talk, offering an empathetic ear. Non-judgmental and patient, creating a safe space for others to share their thoughts and feelings. Extremely reliable in emotional support, providing comfort and understanding without pushing advice. Often a trusted confidant who knows how to offer exactly the kind of support someone needs.

All of these archetypes, regardless of what their personalities are like, provide in their own ways. Be it security, self-improvement, or entertainment. And that's where you need to get to: provide. Bring to the table. Create.

So, always take the initiative when you want something. Don't wait for someone else to do it for you.

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Glory Hallelujah

Written for day 25 of the @steddieholidaydrabbles and the 12 Days of Christmas bonus card of the @steddiebingo

Prompts: Christmas & Glory Hole

Rated: E

Tags: Post-Vecna; Everybody Lives; Rockstar Eddie; Sex Clubs; Glory Holes; Blowjobs; Reunions

Notes: I did a poll to determine which prompt from the bingo card I should combine with the Christmas prompt of the holiday drabbles. Merry Dick-mas, you filthy heathens, I love all of you! ❤️

Eddie isn’t sure what the correct word for someone like him is. He’s been pondering it over four beers now, watching the bored-looking girl at the center of the room spin around her pole, but without any success. 

Pathetic springs to mind, but that isn't strong enough. There must be a stronger word than pathetic for someone spending Christmas at a goddamn sex club. But he was lonely, and he had nowhere to go, so it seemed like a good idea. 

It wasn’t. The place is glaringly empty, even Indy’s kink scene having better places to be on this most magical of nights.

He should’ve gone to Kentucky with Wayne. 

Except this is the old guy’s first time meeting his girlfriend’s family, and Eddie can just imagine how this would’ve played out if he’d tagged along.

Hi, I’m Eddie, Wayne’s nephew. Yeah, I might look familiar. Yeah, I was on the cover of Rolling Stone last month. Thanks, I’m happy your grandkids like my music. Yeah, no, I didn’t commit those satanic murders, that was- Listen, can we talk about my uncle? 

So, instead, here he is. 

Fuck, he hasn’t felt this miserable and mad at himself since that one time he told Steve Harrington to get back with his girl while inconspicuously ogling the guy’s sweaty chest hair under his own battle vest. 

Eddie sighs, getting up from his chair. He might as well head home while he still has some self-respect left.

He's almost at the exit when something catches his eye. There's a row of stalls in the wall, each with its own lockable door. 

The light over one is on. 

There's no fucking way, he thinks, even as his feet carry him right over and into the adjacent cabin. Someone probably forgot to kill the light. There's no fucking way anyone is in there. That would be at least as pathetic as a fucking rock star going to a fucking sex club on fucking Christmas day because he's a depressed moron. 

Still, he goes in, locks the door and pulls down his pants. The hole in the wall stares back at him like it's trying to mock him. Eddie tells himself to stop being silly. 

Worst case scenario is he stands here with his limp dick poking through a hole in the wall like an idiot. Nobody will know, because nobody’s there. Best case scenario is he gets to blow off some steam. 

Nothing happens. 

Eddie sighs and is just about to pull out when suddenly, there's movement. His heart leaps into his throat. He hears it all through the thin wall. A sharp intake of breath, like whoever is on the other side is just as surprised as him. They probably are. They've probably been in there a while. Then, the thud of knees hitting the floor. Eddie has just enough time to think that the mystery person must be really eager for this before he feels soft, warm lips wrapping around his tip. 

Whoever the person in the other stall is, they sure know what they’re doing. They start out gently, slowly sliding Eddie’s swelling cock in and out of that deliciously warm mouth, tongue teasing the length of him. Once he's fully hard, the tongue is joined by a hand, alternating soft licks with firm strokes, and Eddie feels something urgent and hot build at the base of his spine. He moans, fingers grasping the top of the stall for leverage as his hips buck, trying to get closer to that mouth even with the wall between them. 

They keep this up for several minutes. Eddie tries to keep his voice down, but it seems like each of his groans and whimpers spurs the other person on. And then, they scrape their teeth over his tip, and a startled curse escapes his lips, and they swallow him all the way down, as far as the wall allows. 

Eddie comes with a hoarse shout, spilling hot and wet into that mouth. The other person doesn’t pull away. Eddie feels their throat constricting around him as they swallow.

“Fuuuck,” Eddie groans, forehead sagging against the wall. His arms feel like jelly from supporting his weight. “Shit. Jesus. Shitshitshit.” 

And that is when the other person pulls off. 

“Eddie, if it’s you, please come out?” 

“Wait a sec,” says a voice. A voice garbled and wrecked from sucking his cock and swallowing his come. A voice that Eddie hasn’t heard in ten years.

Eddie’s heart stops. On the other side of the wall, a door opens.

“Eddie?” Right outside his own door. “Shit, is that really you?”

This isn’t real. It’s some bizarre, orgasm-induced pipe dream brought about by too much beer and seasonal depression. There’s no way the person outside is who Eddie thinks he is. 

He does. At least he remembers to pull up his pants first.

The door swings open, and there he is. Steve Harrington, ten years older but no less gorgeous, clad in skintight denim and a silky purple shirt, lips turned up into a delighted smile. They’re still swollen and shiny. 

“I knew it!” he cheers, pulling Eddie into a hug. “Nobody else babbles curses like that.”

Eddie grunts. Steve pulls back, holding him at arm’s length. 

“Looking good,” he smiles. “Even better than on that Rolling Stone cover. How have you been, man? Dustin said you talk sometimes, but you never-” 

“What the fuck is going on here?” Eddie blurts. His knees are wobbly and his head is spinning. “You aren’t- … You just sucked my- … You’re straight!” 

Steve laughs, and it’s every bit as breathtaking as Eddie remembers. 

“Yeah, no, I figured that out a while ago. Which you would know, if you’d just kept in touch.” He winks right into Eddie’s gobsmacked face, then takes him by the shoulder and steers him towards the bar. “How about you buy me a drink? We can celebrate this little Christmas miracle, and I’ll bring you up to speed.” 

More holiday drabbles

More Steddie Bingo

[eddiemunson-reader-shame]

Fun fact: the Levi’s trucker vest, the Accept button, the Judas Priest pin, and the eventual addition of the Dio back patch are all vintage pieces from the 80s (except for the Judas Priest pin, that’s actually from a tour they did in the 70s I believe).

The Schott jacket is a second hand item from a super cool person who was selling it for a fraction of the cost, because Schott is out here trying to sell me a $1,000 coat. I ain’t got $1,000 coat money.

Progress on my jacket so far.

This isn’t really a cosplay piece, it’s actually more like a very elaborate art piece/security blanket that I can wear when I’m feeling particularly anxious, stressed, or sad. It won’t ever really leave my home once the Dio shirt comes in, but I’ll occasionally use it for photos and such.

I may get a card signed by Joseph Quinn to keep in the pocket, and if I do meet him, it’ll probably be a little something with a nice, inspiring message that I can laminate and keep in the pocket so I can take it out and read it on those sad days.

[werepuppy-steve]

G | 753 words

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles' prompt: graduation tags: emma verse, modern au, famous corroded coffin, steddie being over the top parents

tagging some of the emma fans: @steves-strapcollection @tboygareth @patchworkgargoyle @steddieas-shegoes @theheadlessphilosopher

@worstsequence @hammity-hammer

"Does she know where we're sitting?" Eddie asks as they shuffle down the rows of plastic seats, his bulky digital camera hanging around his neck by the strap.

(Eddie wanted to bring their tour photographer, Cody, but Steve had to gently remind him that the school already had one hired. Eddie only sulked for an hour.)

Steve levels him a look. "If she doesn't see us, then she'll spot one of these goons and follow the line." He points over his shoulder to their accompanying party.

Wayne is directly behind him, followed by Robin and Chrissy. Jeff, Gareth, Freak, and the kids shuffle in behind them. As much as Eddie doesn’t like flaunting his celebrity status around, he had to call ahead the week before to request an entire row to be reserved just to fit all of them.

His baby is graduating kindergarten, he'll be damned if he doesn't pull out all the stops. They’re even having a little graduation party for her at the house afterwards—a backyard BBQ with everyone and the rest of the tour crew and family who couldn't make it to the ceremony.

Not long after everyone is seated, Pomp and Circumstance crackles out of the loudspeakers and the kids start to walk down the aisle in pairs. It's definitely not perfect, some kids take too-eager steps and some stop to hug their parents, but the teachers do their best to guide them.

Steve starts recording with his phone the second they spot Emma, the digital chime of Eddie's camera shutter clicking away beside him. Her curls are barely tamed in the side pony she asked Eddie to put it in, but it matches the whole 'rocker' vibe she's got going on.

Amongst the sea of summer dresses and pressed toddler slacks, their little girl is wearing her black denim battle vest over a light purple Hannah Montana shirt Steve had gotten at a yard sale, with a pale blue frilly tutu and a pair of silver glitter leggings and her black boots.

She looks nervous, though. Tense. Her shoulders are drawn up and her hands are clasped in front of her. Brown eyes dart this way and that around the room trying to spot a familiar face in the crowd and it breaks Steve's heart to watch his kid be so anxious. Her teacher said she did great at practice yesterday, but that was without the fifty pairs of eyes on her.

Mike is sitting on the end and she finds him easily, her eyes lighting up in recognition, but there's still a worried crease between her eyebrows that doesn't smooth out until she's locking eyes with her dads. She gives them a tiny wave as she walks by.

They both give her encouraging thumbs up and Eddie wishes he could just snatch her up and run out of the building with her.

They eventually get all the kids filed in and the principal stands behind the podium on the stage to welcome everyone. She goes through the awards first (Emma receives one for reading above her grade level, something that Eddie is very proud of) before the kids line back up to receive their little diplomas.

Halfway through the list, Eddie suddenly elbows Steve. "Shit, I didn't hear her name, did we miss her?"

His phone is still recording. "Dude, her last name is M, we're still in the J's."

"Oh, right."

Emma's class is only about 50 or so kids so it doesn't really take that long to get to her name, but Steve and Eddie are still vibrating with the anticipation.

"Emma Munson."

Immediately, their entire entourage is up on their feet and cheering and yelling. It's way too loud for the cafeteria setting they're in, and it echos, and you can definitely tell which of them are in the famous metal band.

Emma's little cheeks turn the same color as her glasses but her grin is big and wide as she holds her certificate in front of her for the picture. Both Steve and Eddie are rapid fire pressing the shutter buttons on their cameras.

Once she's off the stage, the principal clears her throat. "A reminder to please hold all applause until the end of the ceremony, thank you." She gives them a not-so-subtle glare over the rims of her own glasses.

Sheepishly, their group sits back down and is quiet once more.

"We're gonna be worse during her eighth grade graduation, right?" Steve whispers to Eddie.

"Oh, absolutely. She'll want to kill us afterwards."

[fuctacles]

Eddie, begrudgingly: Dustin's older brother is kinda fine :/

I had a craving for best friend's older brother AU so I wrote some but it's not my forte I'm out of ideas so that might be it ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Edit: jokes on me I guess [Part II] [Part III]

Eddie was about to knock on his freshman friend’s door when there was a loud commotion on the other side and the door opened by itself. A guy, probably around his age, nearly ran into him in his haste to leave the house. He startled, taking Eddie in. And then taking a double take, the way Eddie was used to people doing at the sight of him.

“Who are you?” the guy asked, scrunching his nose and not meeting Eddie’s eyes.

He felt his hackles rise, venom building in his throat and ready to spit. He wasn’t expecting this on a Saturday on his friend’s doorstep, but he guessed this was the kind of town where you just couldn’t wear your battle vest in peace anywhere. His upper lip twitched ready to form a snarl, when suddenly the guy's features softened, a spark of recognition lighting up his eyes.

“Wait. Let me guess. Eddie?”

Eddie faltered, taken aback by the sudden shift in tone. He frowned.

“Yeah?”

The guy's face warmed up with a smile, and Eddie was not ready for that kind of emotional rollercoaster this early in the morning.

“Dustin’s stories do not do you justice,” he says for some reason, eyeing him again. Eddie wants to shrivel up and hide. What the fuck was happening. “He’s waiting for you in the kitchen,” he said, stepping to the side to invite him in. “I have to go to work, so you two be good, okay?” he says before waving a cheery goodbye and closing the door, disappearing just as abruptly as he showed up in front of Eddie. The inside of the house suddenly seemed dull.

Another ray of sunshine peeked from the kitchen, toothy grin and hazelnut curls.

“So you’ve met Steve!” Dustin grinned in place of a greeting.

Eddie gawked at him.

“That,” he pointed at the closed door. The sound of a car leaving the curb tickled his ears. “Was Steve?!”

“The adopted brother Steve? The Star Wars fan Steve? The badass older brother Steve?”

“Yes, all that,” Dustin nodded enthusiastically.

“I thought he was, like, 16!” Eddie flailed and it sounded like a petulant whine even to his ears. He winced.

Dustin frowned at him like he was being stupid. Eddie didn’t like that gaze, but unfortunately at this point, he was getting used to it. His younger friend leaned on the kitchen door frame watching Eddie toe off his shoes.

“He’s 19. What gave you that impression?”

Eddie frowned at his scuffed Reeboks. He nudged them with his toe to line up, looking for an answer.

“The adopted part, I think? He’s almost an adult, who adopts that old?”

He knew he had said the wrong thing as soon as he said it. He looked up at Dustin, whose face twisted uncomfortably.

“Shit, sorry man. I didn’t mean-”

Dusting clicked his tongue impatiently, interrupting him.

“It’s fine. This is an unconventional arrangement,” he said in that way when you heard something repeatedly. “I can tell you more, but after we make that character sheet, okay?”

Eddie nodded, eager to abandon his social faux pas. The Henderson’s were an unconventional unit, and that’s what he loved about them, at least from the stories Dustin shared. The guy was a little freak, just like Eddie, so it checked out his family was just as unconventional. So was Eddie’s after all.

The parallels made him warm up inside, the familiar need to protect his younger friends flaring up.

“Deal,” he nodded, following his friend inside the kitchen, where notebooks and DnD manuals already littered the table.

A couple of hours, two coffees and an unsolved argument about the intricacies of multiclassing later, they decided to take a break and Eddie could finally feast his eyes on the family photos on display. He stood in front of the newest one standing front and centre on the mantle. Steve was smiling shyly to the camera while Claudia Henderson had her arms around his shoulders and Dustin was grinning wide from his other side, hair ruffled by the older boy's hand.

“How long he has been living here?”

Dustin’s head popped out of the kitchen where he was rummaging for snacks.

“About a year. Remember the Starcourt fire?”

“Yeah?” Eddie frowned, taken aback by the seemingly unrelated question.

“Well, he’s been there and-” the boy frowned, fully stepping into the living room and crossing his arms. “Shit, Mom says I shouldn’t be babbling it around. That it’s Steve's story to tell.”

Eddie hummed, cocking his head.

“Your mom is very smart.”

Dustin unwrapped his arms, clenching his hands together.

“I guess I could tell you I mean who are you gonna tell? You just-”

Eddie raised both his hands, stopping him.

“Dude, he interrupted with all the disapproval his drug dealing nonconformist self could muster. “She’s right and that would be breaking your brother’s trust.”

“Uh. Yeah,” Dustin gulped, looking adequately ashamed at proposing the idea. “You’re right., he nodded.

This lasted about half a second because nobody could stop Henderson from being an egocentric know-it-all and since he was wrong he was now going to overcompensate for it. Of that, Eddie could be sure.

“We can go to his workplace and you could ask him!”

Eddie raised his hands again.

“Hold your horses Henderson, we’re not harassing your brother at work.” The boy was actually pouting, the little shit. “I am not that determined to hear it. I’ll just catch him another time I visit.”

That was the wrong thing to say because he wasn’t planning on being a recurring guest initially. Or maybe it was the right thing to say since Dustin positively beamed at the implication.

Maybe it was because the kid’s presence has been a good influence on him as well.

Also, while the story of Steve’s adoption didn’t seem that interesting before, the idea of a mall fire being somehow involved raised questions that were now itching the back of Eddie’s tongue. He had to ask them at some point.

*

“There’s this guy,” Eddie starts one day during lunch break. 

“Oh-ho,” Gareth murmurs with disdain, the crumbs from his sandwich falling from his lips.

“Not like that,” Eddie glowered at him, slapping against his arm. Even though it was kinda like that. “He’s picking up Henderson after Hellfire today and if we run into him, I want you guys to be civil.”

“We’re always civil,” Jeff frowns at Eddie’s backhanded accusations.

“Yeah, especially when you guys are mooning after Mrs. Wheeler.”

The comment raised a wave of loud protests from his friends.

“I am just saying-”

“You’re just saying that guy is hot and we shouldn’t ogle him?” Gareth, the worst friend he has, raised his eyebrow.

“No, I’m just-”

“You calling dibs, Munson?” John the Traitor, the Backstabber, joined in. Johned in, if you will.

‘No!” Eddie protested, maybe a little too loud. A couple of heads turned but when they saw the ruckus was coming from the freaks table, they quickly lost interest. “He’s the worst. A hunk of jock with stupid hair but!” He rose a finger. “He’s Henderson’s family. And what do we do with family members in Hellfire?”

“Lure in.”

“Lull into a fake sense of security.”

“Cast charm person.”

“Exactly,” he smirked, pointing his finger at each of them in approval. “This case is no different.”

“It feels different,” Gareth murmured under his breath, earning himself another smack on the shoulder.

*

Eddie wrapped up the session and was giving out experience points to his players when a soft knock interrupted his counting. He frowned at the door.

“Speak ‘friend’ and enter!” he hollered to his sheep’s utter glee. He grinned at them.

Dead silence was all the response he got, so he assumed whatever normie was bugging them got discouraged. But then, Henderson was turning around in his seat, yelling at the door.

“It’s from Lord of the Rings! You know this one!”

There was a shuffle on the other side where apparently, Steve came already to pick up his brother.

“Oh! Um… Melon? Was that it?”

“You may enter!” Eddie commanded with a grin straining at his cheeks. Dustin was doing a good job educating his jock brother, apparently. 

The guy pushed the door open, taking in the table full of teenagers. He waved hesitantly.

“You guys finishing up?”

“I’m handing out points, we need just a few minutes,” Eddie waved his hand. “And it’s Mellon.”

Steve frowned.

“That’s what I said.”

“Sure you did,” Eddie cocked his head condescendingly, ignoring the eyes of Corroded Coffin members staring at him. “Now sit and wait,” he gratuitously offered, snapping his fingers and pointing at a nearby bench, like Henderson’s older brother was some kind of dog.

To his surprise, he nodded shortly and obeyed, sitting down and watching him expectantly. Eddie took it as his cue to proceed. He coughed to gather his sheep's attention and went back to his meticulous calculations.

*

“That didn’t look like Charm Person to me,” Gareth hissed as soon as the younger members of Hellfire had left.

“Huh? What are you talking about?” Eddie scrunched his eyebrows, throwing him a look while he stuffed his campaign notes into his bag.

“You told us to be nice, but you ordered him around like he was one of the kids,” Jeff pointed out, arms crossing.

“I did not”

“You totally did.”

Eddie’s eyes narrowed as he straightened up.

“What is this? Mutiny? Among my own kin? Ungrateful little herd I had nurtured on my own breast-”

He was interrupted by a cacophony of grossed out noises.

“Spare us the imagery, please.”

Eddie huffed indignantly, closing his bag.

“Then quit yapping. It was a singular lapse of judgement on my part,” he said with finality, throwing his bag over his shoulder. Without looking back, he walked off, hand raised in a goodbye, “Toodles, bitches.”

And he was gone.

Gareth sighed.

“Man, I love Eddie, but sometimes…” John cut himself off, shaking his head. 

“Yeah.”

*

Eddie’s been on the fence about it for some time now. But the time was ticking and he did say more than once that ‘86 was gonna be his year, so maybe it was time to pocket his ego and make some calls.

Some very, very humiliating calls.

Sighing deeply he imagined himself going to the woods and digging up a deep hole. There he imaginary buried his pride, made a fancy map to find it later, hopefully in time for his graduation, and finally dragged himself back home and in front of his phone. Next to it, he tacked on a list of numbers of all his newest sheepies in case of emergencies. Like Hellfire scheduling.

He sighed once more, slumping dramatically before dialling the first of the numbers. As he listened to the dial tone, he squared his shoulders, decided a more confident pose was in order. He was now a man of action, taking his fate in his own hands. His pride was buried deeply in the darkest corners of the forest and only a courageous-

“Har- Henderson residence, this is Steve speaking.”

Eddie’s mind went blank, completely thrown off. Who was he calling again? What for?

“Hello?”

“Is this how you pick up the phone? Did I get the wrong house? Is this the British Queen?”

“... Eddie? Is that you?”

Busted.

“What gave me away?”

“Ah, only the dramatic nonsensical ramblings.” Steve answered, amusement in his voice. 

“Thank you, I pride myself in those.” No pride! Pride is buried deep in the putrid soil of a forgotten battlefield! “But I’m here for the superior Henderson, please and thank you.” Ah yes, the Charm Person again. Somebody could think Eddie buried his Charisma along with the pride.

“Sorry, Claudia is at work right now.”

Eddie scrunched his nose, confused, the gleeful tilt to the voice in his ear irking him. Then he remembered the mom. A staple in most households.

“Har, har, Steven. The smart one.”

“Please never call him that to his face,” the man said with a resigned sigh.

“There wouldn’t be enough space in the room for both our egos if I did.”

Steve laughed then, softly and genuinely, before calling out for his younger brother.

After a loud rattle, Dustin’s lispy voice finally reached Eddie’s trailer.

“What's up?”  

The man braced himself for what he was about to request.

“I need your help with an assignment.”

*

The door opened before he could even knock. Again.

“I thought I told you not to inflate his ego.”

“No, you told me not to call him smart. It is merely a by-product of my desperate attempts at graduating,” Eddie shrugged matter-of-factly. “Besides, I don’t respond to the likes of you.” He punctuated his words by seizing the guy up before brushing past him inside the Henderson’s house.

“The likes of- Excuse me?!”

Eddie was skipping towards Dustin’s room.

“Hey big guy I’m here for my tutoring!” he announced himself, standing in the open door to his friend’s room, who quickly beckons him inside. Steve’s heavy steps follow and soon he’s the one standing in the door frame, arms crossed, while Eddie bounces on Dustin’s bed.

“What do you mean the likes of me?” he asks, almost pouting. 

“Mainstream,” offered Dustin, shuffling through stuff on his desk.

“Jocks,” added Eddie, still bouncing with glee, hair following up and down.

“Normies.”

“Pop listeners.”

“Mom friends.”

“Conformists.”

“Okay, I get it!” Steve threw his hands in the air, stopping the list that probably wouldn’t come to an end otherwise. “You’re the cool guys, have fun having your cool stuff,” he huffed angrily, grabbing the doorknob. Before he closed the door he threw one seething glance at Dustin. “Do not. Ask me for snacks,” he hissed before slamming the door shut.

Eddie flipped back on the bed, a wide grin splitting his face.

“Man, your brother is so easy to rile up,” he chuckled gleefully.

“Right?! He’s so bitchy,” Dusting turned around towards him, signature smile in place. Eddie hollered.

“He is!”

Alas, a slap of palms interrupted his delightful trashing around.

“I believe we have some physics to cover?”

Eddie groaned. Right. He didn’t come here to bother the older Henderson. Booo.

[Steddie masterpost] [Ao3] [ko-fi]

[gomzdrawfr]

omg i was surprised no one mentioned hanahaki before so ur tags had me 👁️👁️ like hello. nikolai is the perfect target. the angst potential WAY too good. kill him (with love) hehe >:)

The first time Nik felt something in his throat, he brushed it off as a dry cough, he'd probably worked in the hangar for far too long, with all the dust and jet fuel he inhaled, it was only a matter of time, right? Plus, there was something else that mattered more at the moment, Price leaning against his heli, talking about something as the cigar was smouldering between his fingers.

Nik watched John, every small details and motion etched into his memory. It wasn't the first time Nik found himself utterly smitten and distracted by John, enraptured even.

But it was the first time it hurt, for some reason.

Again, his throat and chest felt tingly.

He found out soon, late at night, choking and gripping his chest as bright petals poured out his lips. Golden Marigolds. Soft but vibrant, covering his chest and pillows like autumn leaves.

Marigolds. Of all kinds of flowers, of course it's Price's favourite one.

Then comes the efforts to fix this...disease, some curse. Nik tried to stop loving John, build up those walls around his heart again, looked for another name to whisper in the night, gave hollow prayers and meaningless kisses to strangers he could never care for.

But the flowers kept returning, because in every attempt to build up this wall, John's laugh had already seeped through the cracks, John's name would always echo in his mind even when his name was being screamed out by another.

John Price had already carved a home into Nikolai's heart without ever asking.

It is impossible to stop loving John. Not when he remembered the day they shared their first cigar, not when he remembered his favourite tunes by heart, not when he could map out the wrinkles and moles around his face.

Nikolai knew, that even with all the subtle tease and signals, that Price would reciprocate.

Eventually.

Maybe.

...or not.

It wasn't Price's fault that he didn't love him, it was Nik's own fault for falling, and falling deeper than any sane person would.

It wasn't Price's fault, it was Nik's own fault for being hard to love, too many histories, too many burnt past, too many obscured files, too many [redacted] too many [redacted] too many [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] —

It wasn't Price's fault, it was Nik's own fault for being easy to leave, even though his heart screamed that no one could replace John.

More and more petals would escape the confine of his lungs, a garden of unsaid I love you lays untouched on the ceramic floors, wilting, dying.

Some of them would scatter around the helicopter. John found hem sometimes, but never questioned it, holding the petals delicately, even keeping some to his vest.

Oh, if only he knew.

Breathing became a battle, the flowers grew and grew, choking Nik from the inside. But the taste of the blooms were better than the lingering taste from John's cigar. This self-destruction of loving him, was so consuming yet so soft. A gentle kind of death. A mercy for wanting someone he could not.

"You o'roite? Nik?" Price asked, because with even one glance, anyone could see the paleness around Nik's skin.

"Fine, Captain." Nik lied, because...what else could he say? that he was dying? because of love? because the flowers in his chest of his own making were growing, nurtured by his greed? by every stolen glance and touch?

Nik's heart ached, tear apart from the inside. The flowers kept growing and so did his love. Perhaps if he could get enough Marigolds, he just might tell him how he feels, but for now...for now the flowers flow and wilt.

not proof read at all btw im just winging it from the get go and from what I had for priceraven originally HDAKDJ XD

[saphronethaleph]

Avatar Assumption

“Vader,” the Emperor said, without preamble. “Explain yourself.”

Vader looked up from where he was undergoing what was either maintenance or surgery, depending on your perspective.

“Master,” he replied, facing the hologram.

“Where is my Death Star?” the Emperor asked.

“Exploded,” Vader told him. “In addition, Master, I wish to inform you that I will be taking leave to rethink my life.”

The Emperor stared at him, somewhat thrown.

“What?” he asked.

“Consider the following, Master,” Vader replied. “I went back over security footage and similar, to understand what had happened, before the security footage exploded along with the cameras and so on; subsequently, I have obtained certain information about the Rebel who destroyed the Death Star.”

He frowned. “Is this really the best repair droid you have? I could build a better one than this in my sleep.”

“Vader!” the Emperor snapped at him. “Get to the point!”

“Shortly after the destruction of Alderaan, a YT-1300 freighter arrived in the system,” Vader said. “A perfectly normal low-rate cargo freighter of the sort normally flown by owner-operators. On that ship there were the following individuals. Firstly, my astromech droid.”

The Emperor was about to reply sharply, then stopped.

“What?” he asked.

“Secondly, a wookie,” Vader continued. “Specifically, the one who saved Ahsoka’s life. Thirdly, the protocol droid I built as a child. Fourthly, my son. Fifthly, Obi-Wan Kenobi, back from the dead, and I am honestly not sure if he can do that again. That ship subsequently escaped with the Princess aboard, but I am not counting her. The final person aboard was a human wearing a vest, who I have not been able to identify.”

“...this isn’t actually answering my question,” the Emperor pointed out, snippily.

“My son was the one who destroyed the Death Star,” Vader provided. “But I want to point out that during the battle over the Death Star, which was of course before I learned that the rebel X-Wing pilot was my son, I was about to shoot him down, until I was ambushed and fired upon by that same YT-1300.”

Vader folded his arms, which dragged the droid working on his left one across the room. “I am going to be taking leave to rethink my life, because I am reasonably sure that the human in the vest was the personification of the Force, a thing which I am quite sure is possible though I am not able to identify why.”

The Emperor just stared down the holonet projection for a long moment.

“And what do you think this personification of the Force was trying to do?” he asked.

Vader shrugged.

“That is part of why I intend to meditate,” he said. “Though, Master, I should warn you to watch out for YT-1300 freighters. They are more dangerous than they seem.”