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just-some-random-blogger · 1 year ago

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Bright Eyes | 1

Part 2

Prince Aemond's marriage was borne out of necessity and political advantage. Let it never be said that he did not know duty, for duty was what kept Aemond Targaryen grounded. But in truth, the prince felt cheated by the match, for he felt his wife was getting scraps as her dowry. After all, she was chosen for him because of her family's wealth and resources. It was then rather scandalous when the icy prince became temperate to his bride.

Aemond Targaryen x Reader | 2k+ | cw: fem!reader, arranged marriage au, smut (virginity loss, vaginal penetration), reluctant lovers ig, typos, etc.

A/N: HIIII THIS IS PART OF THE HOUSE OF THE DRAGON BIG BANG CELEBRATION 🎉🎉🎉 I split mine into 3 parts but I can only post the other 2 parts here on Tumblr after the whole event has ended to respect and give way for the other submissions. It will be available on AO3 to read though so yeah! Thank you so much to the love of my life @ewanmitchellcrumbs for making the art for me (and in such short notice too cos my artist unfortunately deactivated their Tumblr). I'm so luv youuuu Also i haven't written anything for hotd in a while so i don't remember who I'm supposed to tag so kejhshs surprise! And enjoy ig!!! HIHIHI

Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @sloanexx @delicious-xx @deniixlovezelda @targaryenmoony @risefallrise @slavyanskiyahui @thebullship @sa3losa

"Perhaps," I extend a hand to him, "you ought to hold my hand."

Aemond straightens from where he stood, lone eye darting from his feet, to my hand, to my face. He finds offence in this offer, a line threatens to dig deep between his brows.

"The-" I trail off and look away, my gloved hand, however, does not retreat, "-terrain is quite bumpy." I look back to him expectantly, "I know the land well. It would be easier for me to lead you through-"

"Then lead me," Aemond cuts, both hands going behind him, "skip the fussing."

I purse my lips and watch him for a moment.

The wind strengthens. It blows past me yet I do not move with it, even with my thick dress pulling me back. In contrast, Aemond shuffles in his spot, his coat catching the gush of wind and his hair raking his skin. I had offered to braid Aemond's hair to keep it out of his face and he said he could manage because what was the breeze on a meadow compared to the ripping air at the back of a dragon?

He realizes meadow was too kind a term for this patch of land I was showing him. It was a hellscape, not lush or flowery like a meadow at all. The field stretched out to a cliff, and below it laid viscous waves that added to the horrible weather.

I nod and bring my hands to my skirts instead, "please watch your step. A few more paces, we'll reach the area that has many-"

Aemond grunts when he steps on a hidden divot. His heel digs into the mushy surface and he nearly twists his ankle.

I whip my head back and look at him, finally completing my thought, "-holes in the ground."

He clenches his jaw and yanks his foot out of the muck. I silently turn away and continue walking.

The prince mumbles to himself as he follows me.

Finally, I reach the top of the slope. I situate myself atop a rock and look down at the land. I clasp my hands together as I feel the man walk up beside me. I make it a point to really just let the silence simmer, to let him take in the view, though in truth, there really wasn't much of it. It was just-

"Dirt as far as the eye can see."

I turn to Aemond when he says this.

"How good," he purses his lips and brings his hands behind him, "I've always wanted a hill of dirt all for myself."

I slowly step down from the rock and lift my eyes up to my husband-to-be.

"Vhagar might even like it," he says, lone eye scrutinizing me then the land, which was part of my dowry.

It was the worst pickings from my family, that much was clear. But with my three older brothers set to inherit much of my house's estate, I couldn't really complain, after all, I was the youngest... and a woman.

Aemond, of course, would do the complaining, as he has been.

"I am glad to hear that, my prince," I offer a smile.

The look Aemond gives me is one of astonishment. I can practically make out how his covered eye widened underneath his eye patch. He mutters under his breath, "gods, she's fucking thick."

I pretend I don't hear it and follow after the man when he begins to walk away.

The long haired blonde struggles yet again against the uneven terrain. I no longer make the mistake of offering my assistance. For his sake, or perhaps my own, I leave a good distance between the two of us, so that if he were to topple, even if I did instinctively reach out to him again, he would be too far to reach.

I mirror his steps, right leg moving only after his did. Of course, I did not step in the holes and bumps that were so obvious to me. Still, I tail him diligently.

This was why I froze when he turned back and scowled at me.

"What are you doing?" asks the prince with furrowed brows.

I part my lips, "I-"

"Come here," he reaches out, "I have things to discuss with you."

My eyes turn to his extended hand. I look at his large, ruddy palm and feel my belly swirl in reaction. Apprehensively, I place my hand in his, and he rather discourteously snags me close to him. It nearly costs me my balance, but I'm glad it doesn't.

I watch as Aemond links our arms together before he walking off. My eyes dart from his bicep to his profile. I take in the shape of his nose and think about how our children would inherit it. I press my lips into a line at the thought.

"Our marriage is that of convenience," he turns to me, "and duty."

When Aemond does not continue, I tighten my lips together and nod.

He looks away and walks at a slower pace, "we are to be married in a few days time, and after that, you will no longer belong to your house, you will belong to mine," I notice how his expression hardens, "you will belong to me."

"I understand this," I retort.

He tilts his head, "do you?"

I nod, "I do," I tighten my grip on his arm, "my whole life I have been groomed to be the perfect wife. Once I am yours, everything that I am will be for you."

Aemond's face is blank when he looks at me, and yet I can tell he wishes me to clarify.

So I do, "I will be your wife, your princess, the lady of your house, the mother of your children. I am for you... and you for me."

"Mmm," he looks away and adjusts my grip on him. He loosens it, "yes."

For a moment, we both simply walk on the rocky ground.

Aemond draws a deep breath and turns his head to gaze upon the façade of what would be his castle after our marriage. It was a shabby little thing, run down and without servants, but it was situated in a strip of land that would prove to be beneficial if, say, war came.

"Your father is character," Aemond starts, "a rather ambitious man, wouldn't you agree?"

"He is," I chew my lip, "if he could, he'd take the stars and put them on his walls."

The prince hums, "do you share in his ambition?"

"I-"

He squeezes my arm. He throws a look, as if displeased that I would answer so quickly.

I raise my brows, retaining what I meant to answer, though saying it much slower than I would have, "I have no other ambition than to be a dutiful bride. My ambition is your ambition."

Aemond does not respond nor speak up until we make it back to the carriage.

There, both our mothers are waiting, both equally pleased by our return.

"There they are," my mother says with a smile, "I trust you enjoyed your stroll, my prince."

Aemond eyes my mother as he breaks away from me to walk over to his. Queen Alicent smiles at his son and brushes the hair that was flying to his face.

"The walk was too aggravating to be enjoyed. There was not a single patch of leveled ground," the prince say, "I doubt even sheep would enjoy it here."

I play off my agitation while my mother laughs, "you needn't worry about the ground being level, prince Aemond. You'll have peasants to do that for you."

I walk towards my mother when she reaches out to me. She smiles and takes my hand, "come, my daughter. Today will be your last day as my baby."

I lock gazes with Aemond as my mother kisses my temple.

I feel embarrassment creep up my cheeks.

The honest truth was, I don't remember what happened between that moment and when my husband was undoing the back of my dress. I vaguely remember the wedding, sharing dances with my brothers, with Aemond's brothers, with Helaena. I can recall King Viserys retiring early because of his headache, but then again, he did this often, so it could simply be a memory from another day.

All I know was that Aemond's fingers were hard, hot, and nimble. What would have taken me ages to take off my dress, he did so in a few seconds. I do my best not to breathe heavily, but even though I was not facing him, I couldn't seem to keep from heaving.

It was quite dark. The few candles that were lit did not really help in illuminating the room, but that did not make the idea of being naked in front of a man any easier for me.

My hammering heart commanded my eyes shut as the feverish dragon stripped me bare before him. I swear his touch burned my shivering skin as he slowly revealed my body to himself. I feel him brush his palms down my arms as he pulled my dress down my shoulders. Soon enough my entire body prickled as my shift dropped to my feet.

I cover my breasts with my arm and block my sex with my hand.

"Would you like to undress me, wife?" he mutters.

I feel the hair on the back of my neck raise when I feel his hot breath hit my skin. It was such a plainly worded question, yet it made me want to jump out of the window.

I slowly turn my head, opening my eyes to steal a look of him from over my shoulder. I don't know why, but I say, "yes."

The fact was I didn't. I didn't want to undress him. I would like to think it was quite apparent with how I slowly turned and apprehensively uncovered myself to be able to undress him.

I did not know why I was so shocked that he was unabashedly eyeing my body. I did not know why I was so shocked when his hands reached out to my waist, when his fingers pressed into my flesh, and his nails left marks on my skin. I let out a squeak and fidgeted with his shirt as he did so.

He only releases me when I pull his top off. I step out of my shift, bunched by my ankles, and walk closer to him to undo his breeches. I do not look at his face once, but I know he is still looking at me.

Once his ties were loose, I ghost my fingertips by his waistband, uncertain and hesitant of what to do next.

Recognizing this, he takes my wrists, but he freezes the next moment, clearly not expecting me to do what I did next.

I kissed him. I tilted my head and pressed my lips against his. It was chaste-- probably how I kissed him when we were proclaimed man and wife, but gods did it make my body burn.

I lick my lips after pulling away. I think about clutching his face, and so I do. I reach out to his cheeks and shift on my toes, leaning in for another peck.

I whimper when he pulls me flush against his chest. The contrast of my softer, colder body on his leaner, warmer one was something welcome. Apart from his hands tugging me close, it was like his very essence was drawing me into him.

We do not break our kiss even as he pushes me towards the bed, not even as I topple back and land on the mattress. There is a desperation in his kisses, as if the act of ending it would cause him harm.

He guides me underneath him. He parts my legs and makes room for himself between them. He rubs against me, and it is then I am reminded that I had failed to strip him fully naked. He immediately moves to remedy this, which is then when he pulls away.

When he does so, he rips at his trousers, hell-bent on freeing himself in as little time as possible.

Aemond gets on his knees and gracelessly pulls his remaining clothing off. It may have been dark but I could see him. I could see all of him now. It made my core pulse with excitement, dread, anticipation, and apprehension all at once.

I sigh when he sinks down and presses against me. He kisses me again and I feel his hardened length press against my belly.

I mold my body against him, curling myself in a way that fit snug with his form. I bring my thighs against his hips and feel encouraged when his hand squeeze and pull them closer to him.

He breaks our kiss to draw in a much needed breath and the haze that built in my mind grows thicker when Aemond begins to trail his lips down my jaw and neck. My nails find their way to his spine when he begins to buck his hips into me.

My skin prickles and my heart pounds when he whispers something into my ear. I did not know what he said, but I was certain it was High Valyrian. I was also somehow certain it had something to do with the way I felt.

Aemond hums and sinks his nose behind my ear. I whimper in response, arms tightening around him. I embrace him like I did not intend to let him go, and it truth, I really didn't.

"You make such pretty sounds for me."

I feel embarrassment creep up my cheeks. I am glad he does not see it.

I make another sound when I feel Aemond's hand trail between my thighs. We both hiss when his fingers find my sensitive center.

He pushes himself up on one arm and lifts his body. Aemond grabs himself and makes me yelp when he rubs his cock against my folds. It was then I realized how wet I've become.

He does this for a while. He coats himself with my dampness. He continues until I feel my body drip with sweat and arousal, until the arm keeping him up tires, and then I feel him slowly push into me.

When he does so, he sinks down and fits into me oh-so perfectly. The intrusion was not at all uncomfortable, in fact, it made my belly burn with need.

I find myself kissing the crook of his neck as he laid atop me. I feel him sigh in response.

"Please," I whisper, thighs rubbing against him, "I need more."

Aemond wastes no time in attending to my plea.

I mewl when he begins to thrust his hips. His movements are short and tight; he barely pulls out. He continues like this then changes pace when he grabs the back of my knees and pushes them close to my ribs. His movements grow bolder, more deliberate and harder.

He, himself, makes pretty sounds as he moves into me.

I feel sweat begin to build on my skin. I feel a pressure begins to tighten in me.

"Take my seed like a dutiful wife," he kisses my jaw, "I'll put a dragon in you."

My back arches, "Aemond."

"I wish to see you full of me," his one hand comes up to my breast and squeezes it, "I wish to fill you with me."

"P-please fill me," I respond with a shaky voice.

Aemond grunts, "I will."

My heart nearly stops when I feel burning pleasure break into me. My mouth releases the remaining air in my lungs as it calls out my husband's name.

Aemond makes gutteral noises as his movements grow rough and eventually stop.

I bury my face into his shoulder and catch my breath. Aemond follows suit but takes only a few breaths before lifting himself up and rolling off me.

He brings my legs together and covers my form with a blanket. I tense when he stands and walks off, feeling a panic come over me when he disappears. It only intensifies when he does not come back quickly.

I am about to sit up but then I freeze when I see him walk over to me. He is now clothed and had something in his hand.

"Clean yourself up," he places something on the bedside table, "you will not enjoy it when you wake," he turns to me, "I suggest you get dressed as well. You are rather cold."

I feel my body burn as Aemond walks off, circling the bed, coming under the sheets on his side.

I do as he says, slowly pushing the blanket off, feeling a chill run down my spine when my bare feel touch the cold ground. I stand and see that there was a wash basin on the table, as well as a towel.

I take in a deep breath and wipe myself down with warm water that was prepared for me. Once I was done, I examine the floor and pick up my shift. I put it on and put out the candles.

I climb into bed and do my best not to touch Aemond. My voice breaks when I call out, "good night."

He does not respond so I tell myself he was asleep. It takes a while for me to do the same.

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rourouxiaobao · 1 month ago

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MXTX FoodZine 2024 \o/

My MXTX FoodZine 2024 fics are finally live!!! On my AO3, that is (they've been live via the official Zine channels for a while now, just that I was overseas, and then fell sick with Post-Trip Flu).

I contributed 2 fics and 3 recipes for this year's Zine! I was supposed to contribute and 3rd fic (collabbing with someone else's recipe) but time and stress really got to me and I couldn't get it done (to my standards) in time. I'll save it for next year's Zine! :D

My contributions: - MDZS fic + 1 recipe (there are 3 recipes in this collab) - TGCF fic + recipe - Recipe for a SVSSS art collab Info for each contribution below, along with page numbers for where they can be found within the digital Zine! For the fics, you can click/tap on the header or fic cover image to be directed to my fic!

Accusations of Murder (And Other Sibling Things) [MDZS Fic]

Relationships: Xue Yang & A-Qing, Jiang Yanli/A-Qing, Song Lan/Xiao Xingchen Tags: Yi City Fam, Siblings Xue Yang & A-Qing, Sibling Shenanigans, Are You Really Siblings If You Haven't Accused Each Other Of Heinous Crimes At Least Once, Sibling Love Language Is Accusing Your Sibling Of Murdering Your Pet, But You'll Also Die For Them, And You'll Absolutely Murder Anyone Who Fucks With Them, Just Sibling Things, Food Fic, MXTX FoodZine, Suppportive Bro Xue Yang, Coming Out, No Hurt All Comfort, Sibling Bonding, Modern AU Summary: Something is bothering A-Qing and Xue Yang, in his capacity as her insufferable responsible big brother, decides to do something about it.

Bribery with food and unfounded! accusations of murder abound. Pages: 110-115 (Pg110 GhostySword's recipe; Pg111 DJ's recipe card; Pg112 my recipe + DJ's art; Pgs113-115 my fic) Please check the post-fic notes for DJ's and Ghosty's socials!

One Man's Trash Is Another Man's Grocery List [TGCF Fic]

Relationships: Hua Cheng/Xie Lian, He Xuan/Shi Qingxuan, Shi Qingxuan & Xie Lian, Hua Cheng & He Xuan, Jun Wu/Mei Nianqing Tags: Food Fic, MXTX FoodZine, Modern AU, Xie Lian's Absolutely Trash Luck, Xie Lian's Absolutely Trash Cooking Skills, But If There's No Cooking Involved It'll Be Okay Right, In Sanlang We Trust, Getting Drunk, Drunken Shenanigans, Hualian, Beefleaf, Hangover, Meetcute or Meatcute, Undergrad Extracurricular Activities, Getting Together Summary: Through the capricious whims of fate, Xie Lian (someone who can and has burned a pot of water) finds himself registering to be a member of his new university's Cooking Club. Worst still, he has to bring a dish to the annual party for first-year students!

Will the help and advice of his new (best?) friend Sanlang be enough to help him whip up something that won't result in disaster to his kitchen or the local hospital's emergency department? Pages: 229-236 (Pg229 my recipe; Pgs230-236 my fic; Pg236 Misty's art) Please check the post-fic notes for Misty's socials!

Triple-Choco Cookies [SVSSS Recipe Card]

Recipe: Me Art: Inu [inuthe3rd @ Tumblr | Twitter | Instagram ] Page: 53

What Was The Dropped Entry?

It was the SVSSS fic for Li's (chefyli909 on Twitter) Ice Cream Mochi recipe. It's a MoShang fic (with background BingQiu). I had Grand Plans to do a fic for each MXTX-verse. Idk why I keep trying to murder myself lol. I guess with Inu's recipe card, I technically do have an entry/contribution for each, but still... ^^;;;

All that said, please check out the whole Zine for excellent MXTX foodie works by many awesome and talented fanwork creators! ^u^

And many thanks to the MXTX FoodZine team for their hard work and incalculable effort in coordinating yet another year of excellence! I'm so glad to be part of this fantastic Zine once again!

#mxtx foodzine #mxtx foodzine 2024 #mdzs #tgcf #svsss #fanfic #recipes #berry crumble #no-bake trifle #triple chocolate cookies

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chunkypossum · 5 days ago

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2024 Fic Writer End of Year Roundup

Answer and then tag three or more creators to keep the game going!

(If you're in my answers consider yourself tagged if you'd like to play!!)

1. How many words did you publish on AO3 in 2024? 619,247... with the way A03 calculates I don't think that's entirely accurate but that's what it says... I would take off 225k and guess it's more around 350-400k

2. How many fics did you complete this year?

18, those event weeks really had a chokehold on me

3. How many in progress or ongoing fics did you start this year?

I have only posted a couple of WIP this year. I have stared at least 20 more, but have yet to post anything on them. Hopefully, I will have them all organized by this evening so I can start with my 2025 goals of getting them all done or at least well on their way!

4. What was your favorite thing you wrote?

I had the best time with What We Deserve!! It has to go at the top of the list.

Honorable mention would be Mother Save Us From Your Twisted fate just because it came out of nowhere and I think I started the first part and finished it in a day or two like a madman and posted without really giving it a second look. Truly a fic of strange passion.

5. What piece was your most experimental or different from your usual style?

probably Lighthouse in the Woods. Exploring a poly dynamic in a fic I didn't originally intend to be poly was an interesting choice for my brain lol but a fun and rewarding challenge!

6. Did any fics surprise you - either while writing or their reception?

Under the Weeping Beech shocked me just because it demanded I write it but there was very little reward with how sad it is. Y'all know I love sad angsty shit but I always seem to find a way to make everything ok in the end. Not so much this time but I simply couldn't make myself write it any other way. This was how it was supposed to be

7. Do you have a fic you wrote and loved that went under the radar? (This is your sign to reblog/repost it!)

Everything kind of went how I expected it to this year, but a fic that went under MY OWN PERSONAL RADAR was When Even Moonlight Burns. I adore the outline but couldn't make myself get serious about it this year. I'm waiting for my depraved self to rise to the surface for that one. It needs to be a beautiful disgrace

8. Who is an artist that inspired you?

I'm not sure I could name anyone without naming EVERYONE. If you have created Azris, you're on this list.

@queercontrarian inspires me daily with her work. Her attention to detail and the fashion work in her pieces are notches on my bones, that's how permanently they have changed me. I find myself staring at them for entirely too long to be appropriate and keep coming back to revisit my favorites!

@elleybug has a vision for her art that speaks to me on a cellular level. Every single piece supplies me with endless amounts of emotion that just make me want to create and create and create!

9. Who is an author that inspired you?

This question is really testing my memory because every time I read something I get inspired. All of you are just too damn good so if I forget to tag you it's only because I am stupid or I simply haven't been able to get to your amazing work yet BUT I WILL... and not because you don't belong on this list!!!

@fieldofdaisiies for her sweet pieces, @born-to-riot for her funny pieces, @acourtofladydeath for her thoughtful pieces, @secret-third-thing for her weird pieces, @iftheshoef1tz for her poetic pieces, @g00seg1rl for her horny pieces, @pippsmcgee for the dazzling intricacy of that piece she is teasing me with @talibunny30 for characterization in that nesta fic that wont leave me, @jules-writes-stories for the emotion she brings, @the-darkestminds for her dark mind that's like a twin flame, @mistandmemories for all that edging and absolute adorableness, @yanny-77 for the mastery of the dynamics between characters, @fourteentrout for the delicious intimacy, @brunetterebel010 for the vulnerability, @neciebee for the lyrical prose, @whisperingmidnights for the soulful prose, @mudandmire for the gorgeous and unique ideas, @unanswered-stars for the heartbreaking beauty!

10. Who is a new author you discovered?

so so many this year! Special mentions to @jules-writes-stories, @the-darkestminds, @mistandmemories who I really consider to be the big three of 2024 for me! Following along each of your beautiful stories this year has been a highlight!

11. Did you do any collaborations? How did it start?

not this year!

12. What accomplishments are you proudest of?

Everything I managed to finish lol. I was worried it would be nothing at all!

13. What did you learn about writing or creating this year?

I work best when I am just dishing out what's been gnawing at me, and trying to participate in too much just for the sake of it was too draining!

14. Any advice you’d like to share with new or aspiring writers?

It's fanfic, take the pressure OFF and just write the thing! If there is a story in your heart you really want to have exist in the world, you need to get it out and let it breathe! Don't focus on numbers or style or craft while you're just getting started. Have fun and create because you NEED to, everything else can come later.

15. What are your creative goals for 2025?

I have approx 12347576412 projects I would like to get written... I'm here to mass produce simply because I can't keep up with my brain. LOL. But truly if I can get one full multichapter fic completed this year I will be very happy!

#azris #azriel x eris #azris fanfiction #askgame #chunkyasks

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corneliaavenue-ao3 · 4 months ago

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End Game: I Wanna Be Your A-Team (chapter 3)

Ginny Weasley is playing for England's Quidditch Team in the World Cup.

This is her fanbase's reaction to it.

Read from the beginning on Ao3 here

Read this chapter on Ao3 here

@quidditch-world-cup-updates posted

The 132nd World Cup will start later today! England and the United States of America will meet up for the first time ever in the finals!

@quidditch4lyfe posted

For the first time ever, I will be rooting for the refs in a quidditch match

@thunderbirdgirll posted

CAW CAW BITCHES!!! LET'S GO USA!!!!

@horny-serpent posted

I'm about to break the statue of security and tell the No-Maj's that today is basically a second independence day. I want to dump some tea in a harbor

@beatemup posted

i can't believe i live in a time where i have to watch the fucking USA play England in the biggest game ever. The world of quidditch deserves better than this

@nycwitchy posted

🦅🦅🦅🦅🦅🦅

@quid-bitch posted

Happy Block An American Day to everyone who celebrates!

@harpies-hore reblogged @quid-bitch

my favorite day of the year!

@ginwiz posted

no matter what happens today, this is the best day of my life

@ginginweas reblogged @ginwiz

love that for you, i might avada kadavra myself if we lose

@harpies-hore posted

I can't believe they are playing this game in fucking Canada. The stadium is going to be filled with USA fans

@thunderbirdgirll reblogged @harpies-hore

HELL YEAH IT WILL BE

@harpies-hore reblogged @thunderbirdgirll

fuck you, i post the memes here

@drarry-is-real posted

only the united fucking states of america would get me to actually root for Ginny Weasley

@hinny-luv-4-eva reblogged @drarry-is-real

if you didn't have maggots for a brain, you would always root for Ginny Weasley

@drarry-is-real reblogged @hinny-luv-4-eva

you have maggots for a brain

@queezy-4-weasley posted

is anyone actually going to the match?

@ginwiz replied: merlin i wish

@ginginweas replied: my cousin is, but apparently didn't want to invite me????

@gin-will-win replied: I thought we were going to lose last round, so I spent all my money on that game

@im-a-keeper posted

I am so curious what England will bring as their mascot

@quid-bitchh reblogged @im-a-keeper

Harry James Potter

@bitch-witchh posted

so if i floo to the ministry of magic right this second, i could buy a last minute international floo ticket to canada, and then apparate to the fields outside the stadium, run to the stadium, and then apparate to the top of the stadium where i can then watch ginny weasley play in the world cup for approximately 1 minute before i get arrested by canadian aurors

@queezy-4-weasley reblogged @bitch-witchh

worth it

@corneliastreet28 posted

i can't believe this is my first quidditch game and it is the world cup!!!

@ginwiz reblogged @corneliastreet28

omg have so much fun!!!!

@quidditch-world-cup-updates posted

The United States of America has taken the field with their mascot, the Griffin, proudly flying behind them!

@nycwitchy posted

🦅🦅🦅🦅🦅🦅CAW CAW!!! LET'S GO MY WEIRD LITTLE EAGLE/LION MASCOT🦅🦅🦅🦅🦅🦅

@ginginweas posted

Oh you know the Gryffindors are going to be pissed about America's mascot

@bitch-witchh posted

I can't see him, but I know my man, Ron Weasley, is booing so hard right now

@quid-bitch reblogged @bitch-witchh

i love a man who is a hater to his core

@quidditch-world-cup-updates posted

England has taken the field, surprisingly, with no mascot

@ginwiz reblogged @quidditch-world-cup-updates

wait why???

@queezy-4-weasley posted

Did they try to get Harry to be their mascot, and he didn't agree??

@ginginweas posted

why would we not have a mascot?????????

@nena-96 posted

no mascot?? nothing?? we couldn't even have gotten a house elf to represent us???

@im-a-keeper posted

I hate to be the one to let everyone know, but England did bring a mascot... it's just that only some people can see it

@quidditch-world-cup-updates posted

We stand corrected, England did bring a mascot. It has been reported that several Thestrals are flying alongside the British players.

@thunderbirdgirll posted

well that's fucking depressing. way to bring down the vibes britain

@puddlemore-111 posted

That is so tacky to do

@ginwiz posted

Honestly, what a tribute. We know Ginny and several of the other members of the team can see them, and it is such a great way to remember the war that we fought just a few years ago and how it still impacts people today.

@harpies-hore reblogged @ginwiz

yeah and it's a threat. We brought a fucking death omen as our mascot

@gin-will-win posted

THERE SHE IS!!!

@ginwiz posted

GINNY!!!

@harpies-hore

THAT'S MY GIRL!!!

@hinny-luv-4-eva posted

GINNY IS THERE!! NOW SHOW HARRY!!

@ginginweas

OH MY!!! I LOVE THESE QUIDDITCH KITS

@quid-bitch reblogged @ginginweas

her ass looks so good in it

@ginginweas reblogged @quid-bitch

it does, it truly does

@harpies-hore reblogged @ginginweas

harry is going to kick both of your asses

@queezy-4-weasley posted

THERE'S HARRY!!

@ginginweas posted

Harry wearing a Weasley jersey, makes me sob every time I see it

@hinny-luv-4-eva reblogged @ginginweas

wait until Ginny wears a Potter jersey

@drarry-is-real reblogged @hinny-luv-4-eva

that is NEVER going to happen

@gin-will-win posted

okay yeah Harry is wearing a Ginny Weasley jersey, BUT LOOK AT HER PARENTS!! THEY ARE WEARING MATCHING JUMPERS WITH HER FACE ON THEM!!

@bitch-witchh posted

Molly Weasley, what do I need to do for a Ginny Weasley jumper???

@ginwiz reblogged @bitch-witchh

you probably need to become a weasley

@bitch-witchh reblogged @ginwiz

any of the weasley brothers single?

@harpies-hore reblogged @bitch-witchh

percy

@bitch-witchh reblogged @harpies-hore

@quidditch-world-cup-updates posted

With the release of the snitch, the 132nd Quidditch World Cup has begun!

@brightlybound posted

can someone explain the rules of quidditch to me real quick

@queezy-4-weasley reblogged @brightlybound

big ball needs to go through hoops for 10 points

medium sized ball hits people and hurts

little golden ball ends the game for 150 points

@brightlybound reblogged @queezy-4-weasley

Thanks! I'm going to forget about half of this

@im-a-keeper posted

England came READY today

@gin-will-win posted

Weasley to Killick to Alton back to Killick to Weasley to Alton to...

@quid-bitch posted

AMERICA IS SO FUCKED

@ginginweas posted

SHE SCORED!!!

@bitch-witchh posted

I KNOW THAT IS MY GIRL!!!!

@thunderbirdgirll posted

wait, i was told weasley got her spot on the team because her boyfriend saved the world, not because she was actually good at this sport

@harpies-hore reblogged @thunderbirdgirll

America's live reaction to realizing how good Ginny Weasley is

@thunderbirdgirll reblogged @harpies-hore

plz delete

@hinny-luv-4-eva posted

HARRY ALMOST FELL OVER THE RAILING IN EXCITEMENT!!!

@drarry-is-real reblogged @hinny-luv-4-eva

now you are just writing fanfiction

@hinny-luv-4-eva posted

lol, because @drarry-is-real is my older sister

@drarry-is-real reblogged @hinny-luv-4-eva

give me my green jumper back

@hinny-luv-4-eva reblogged @drarry-is-real

@ginwiz posted

SHE SCORED AGAIN

@gin-will-win posted

is America okay? are they even trying???

@thunderbirdgirll posted

America rn

@harpies-hore reblogged @thunderbirdgirll

in another life, we would have been friends

@ginginweas posted

Do we think Shah catches the snitch today?

@queezy-4-weasley reblogged @ginginweas

by the way the chasers are playing, he might not need to

@im-a-keeper posted

I refuse to get comfortable, the USA is known for their comebacks

@ginwiz reblogged @im-a-keeper

don't say that

@quid-bitchh posted

we can't lose, america can't score

@quidditch-world-cup-updates posted

Sullivan scores the United States first points after an incredible Dionysus Dive! England is still up 40-10.

@horny-serpant posted

THANK FUCK WE GOT POINTS

@thunderbirdgirll reblogged @horny-serpant

ALL HOPE IS NOT LOST

@gin-will-win posted

ah fuck

@hinny-luv-4-eva posted

NOOO they weren't supposed to score!!!!!

@queezy-4-weasley posted

is it too late to get a new keeper?

@ginginweas reblogged @queezy-4-weasley

Ron can sub in, I heard he was keeper at Hogwarts

@queezy-4-weasley reblogged @ginginweas

i don't trust the quidditch skills of a man who cheers for the Chudley Cannons

@ginwiz posted

CAN THEY STOP SCORING PLEASE!?!?

@quid-bitch posted

GINNY!! OPHELIA!! RICHARD!!! HARRY!!! SOMEONE!!! DO SOMETHING!!!

@thunderbirdgirll posted

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!!!!!!!

@nycwitchy posted

OOOOHH SAY CAN YOU SEEE!!!! BY THE DAWN'S EARLY LIGHT

@ginginweas posted

okay I was fine with them scoring once, a little troubled with them scoring twice, hurt about the third, BUT WE LET THEM TIE US IN THE SPAN OF 5 MINUTES????

@bitch-witchh posted

I'm blaming @im-a-keeper for USA comeback

@im-a-keeper reblogged @bitch-witchh

I'm sorry

@thunderbirdgirll posted

@gin-will-win posted

things are getting.... snippy out there

@harpies-hore posted

oh Ginny is MAD

@queezy-4-weasley posted

yes Gin, steal that quaffle right out of the greedy American's hand

@nycwitchy reblogged @queezy-4-weasley

not the British citizen calling America greedy, girl, yall have some artifacts to return from the British Museum

@quid-bitch posted

THAT BITCH CLARK PULLED ON GINNY'S BROOM TAIL!!

@im-a-keeper posted

... did the refs not stop that?

@ginginweas posted

I DON'T EVEN NEED A POLL TO KNOW THAT THESE REFS ARE WORSE THAN VOLDEMORT

@ginwiz posted

OH SHIT

@quid-bitch posted

THAT WAS SO HOT OF HER

@bitch-witchh posted

GINEVRA MOLLY WEASLEY

@hinny-luv-4-eva posted

damn...

@quidditch-world-cup-updates posted

A fight has broken out between England and The United States of America after Ginny Weasley punched Cecelia Clark in the face

@harpies-hore posted

@quid-bitchh posted

Ginny, you can punch me at any time

@quidditch4lyfe posted

I can't believe I thought I was going to hate this game.

@thenicestthingiveseen posted

@puddlemore-111 posted

Further proof that this generation is ruining Quidditch

@ginginweas reblogged @puddlemore-111

people have died playing quidditch before and you're offended by a punch???

@hinny-luv-4-eva posted

I'm crying, Harry is cheering so loudly for Ginny right now

@bitch-witchh posted

no, but Harry is out of his seat thrilled that she threw that first punch

@gin-will-win posted

shut the fuck up, her PARENTS are celebrating her punching Clark

@ginwiz posted

@hinny-luv-4-eva reblogged @ginwiz

Harry would kill himself before hitting Ginny

@bitch-witchh reblogged @hinny-luv-4-eva

and Ginny would kill Harry before backing out of a competition

@thunderbirdgirll posted

Cecelia, girl, how you going to start that fight with an illegal move and then get your ass beat like that??? You're embarrassing me

@quidditch-world-cup-updates posted

The refs have both teams separated and the fight has ended. Cecilia Clark will be rewarded 2 free penalty shots. Ginny Weasley has received an official warning penalty.

@quidditch-world-cup-updates reblogged @quidditch-world-cup-updates

this was a terrible call btw

@ginginweas posted

NOT @quidditch-world-cup-updates recognizing how BAD these refs are!!

@queezy-4-weasley posted

at least Clark only made one of her two penalty shots

@harpies-hore reblogged @queezy-4-weasley

Clark does not equal free points

@horny-serpant posted

we were going to need those extra 10 points

@ginginweas posted

okay folks, back to our regularly scheduled England dominance

@gin-will-win posted

Alton scored thank fuck

@thunderbirdgirll posted

Sullivan scored thank fuck

@queezy-4-weasley posted

GINNY WITH THE QUAFFLE!

@bitch-witchh posted

so much is happening at once

@im-a-keeper posted

it is back and forth, back and forth for both teams.

@quidditch-world-cup-updates posted

Clark scores tying the game back up at 90-90.

@quidditch4lyfe posted

Ginny should start another fight

@harpies-hore reblogged @quidditch4lyfe

I agree

@quid-bitch posted

I fear we will be relying on Shah once again to catch the snitch

@ginwiz reblogged @quid-bitch

THAT'S OKAY!!! HE CAN DO IT!!!

@thunderbirdgirll reblogged @ginwiz

@gin-will-win posted

More points!

@nycwitchyy posted

AMERICA SCORES AGAIN!!!!

@harpies-hore posted

whenever I think we can take the lead, there America is, right behind us, scoring again

@thunderbirdgirll reblogged @harpies-hore

CAN'T GET RID OF US!!!

@hinny-luv-4-eva posted

okay can we go back to winning please? i need a happy harry and ginny post-game celebration

@puddlemore-111 posted

2 hours into the game and still no snitch sighting. Shah was the worst pick as a seeker for England

@im-a-keeper reblogged @puddlemore-111

Shah literally caught the snitch the last two matches, one of them against Victor Krum? What are you even talking about?

@ginginweas reblogged @im-a-keeper

you got to block him like the rest of us did

@im-a-keeper reblogged @ginginweas

@four2andnew posted

so when does the game actually end? I was told that Harry Potter might propose to Ginny Weasley at the end of the game

@queezy-4-weasley reblogged @four2andnew

whenever the snitch is caught

@four2andnew reblogged @queezy-4-weasley

and when will that happen?

@queezy-4-weasley reblogged @four2andnew

who's to say

@gin-will-win posted

Ginny scores again!! What is that? 8 goals for her now?

@bitch-witchh reblogged @gin-will-win

nine!

@quidditch-world-cup-updates posted

At the 2 hour and 34 minute mark, we have our first snitch sighting!

@hinny-luv-4-eva posted

CATCH THE FUCKING SNITCH AND END THE GAME SHAH!

@ginwiz posted

aaaaand they lost the snitch

@quid-bitch posted

while you were watching shah miss the snitch, i was watching our girl score again

@ginginweas posted

this is such a high scoring game so far... 210-180

@bitch-witchh reblogged @ginginweas

both team's keepers kinda suck

@ginginweas reblogged @bitch-witchh

we should have had Wood over Frisby

@quid-bitch reblogged @ginginweas

I love Wood

@bitch-witchh reblogged @quid-bitch

we know

@gin-will-win posted

MORE POINTS FOR GINNY!!!

@harpies-hore posted

if we manage to win this, Ginny deserved MVP again

@bitch-witchh

SNITCH SIGHTING SNITCH SIGHTING!!!!

@ginwiz posted

AHHHHHHH!!!!!!

@queezy-4-weasley posted

SHAH YOU CAN KICK THE AMERICAN'S ASS

@thunderbirdgirll posted

COME ON DIAZ!!!! CATCH THE SNITCH!!!

@nycwitchy posted

NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

@harpies-hore posted

YEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!1

@im-a-keeper posted

SHAH DID IT!!!!

@quid-bitch posted

I NEVER THOUGHT THIS DAY WOULD COME!!!!!!!!

@bitch-witchh posted

BREW YOUR TEA WITH AMERICAN TEARS TONIGHT BECAUSE ENGLAND JUST WON!!!!

@quidditch-world-cup-updates

Steffan Shah snagged the snitch! England has won the 132nd Quidditch World Cup!

@drarry-is-real posted

I CAN'T BELIEVE I AM ACTUALLY HAPPY GINNY WEASLEY WON!

@hinny-luv-4-eva posted

SHE FLEW STRIAGHT OVER TO HARRY!!!!!!!1

@drarry-is-real posted

I no longer am happy Ginny Weasley won

@queezy-4-weasley posted

GINNY AND HARRY!!!!

@ginginweas posted

i love their love

@quid-bitch posted

HARRY AND GINNY SITTING IN A TREE!! K-I-S-S-I-N-G

@hinny-luv-4-eva posted

THEY JUST MAKE ME FEEL SO MANY THINGS I LOVE HINNY YOURE HONOR

@harpies-hore posted

EVERYBODY WANTS TO KNOW WHAT I WOULD DO IF I DIDN'T WIN!!! GUESS WE'LL NEVER KNOW

@gin-will-win posted

WHERE'S THE TROPHY??? SHE JUST COMES RUNNING OVER TO ME!!!!

@thunderbirdgirll posted

okay im sad, but they are very cute together

@nycwitchy reblogged @thunderbirdgirll

i know. like the hot, young quidditch star is dating the savior of the world. swoon worthing. i need a romance book based off of them, stat

@hinny-luv-4-eva reblogged @nycwitchy

i don't have a book, but I can give some fanfic recommendations

@ginwiz posted

wait... did anyone else see that sparkle?

@ginginweas reblogged @ginwiz

i thought my eyes deceived me there for a second but....

@hinny-luv-4-eva posted

DID SHE JUST SLIP ON AN ENGAGEMENT RING??

@queezy-4-weasley posted

THAT'S A RING

@harpies-hore posted

@bitch-witchh posted

ENGAGED HINNY??? DID HE JUST PROPOSE???

@gin-will-win posted

I don't think it was a proposal??? i think she couldn't wear the ring during the game and she just slipped it on herself after the game!???

@ginginweas reblogged @gin-will-win

I THINK YOU'RE RIGHT!!! THEY WERE ALREADY ENGAGED!

@ginwiz posted

THEY JUST CASUALLY ANNOUNCING THAT THEY ARE ENGAGED???

@im-a-keeper posted

This was the best season of quidditch I have ever experienced. Love stories, fist fights, and a quidditch world cup. I may actually be crying.

@hinny-luv-4-eva posted

I DON'T THINK I WILL EVER GET OVER TODAY

@drarry-is-real reblogged @hinny-luv-4-eva

you are so annoying

@hinny-luv-4-eva reblogged @drarry-is-real

LOVE YOU TOO SIS!!!

@ginnyweasley posted

WE WON!!!

I had a wonderful experience playing for England alongside my excellent teammates. So thankful to have such a loving, supportive fiancé to celebrate with!!

@gin-will-win posted

FIANCE!!!!!!

#end game #hinny #ginny weasley #harry potter #harry x ginny #harry potter x ginny weasley #harry potter fanfiction #this is a wrap! thanks to everyone who read and enjoyed this silly little fic!#and if you are tagged it is because you told me i could!!! I hope you enjoy your small role!!#(unless you are ginwiz then i am sorry you keep getting tagged but in my defense that was my old url)

59 notes · View notes

steviewashere · 4 days ago

Text

My Mind's Got Legs, Running in Circles

Rating: Teen and Up CWs: Eddie Munson Has OCD, Eddie Munson Has ARFID (If you Squint), Compulsions (That Could be Viewed as Harmful/Self-Harm), Negative Self Talk, Internalized Ableism, Minor Panic Attack, Food Tags: Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Eddie Munson Whump, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort, Good Boyfriend Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Takes Care of Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson Trusts Steve Harrington (Which I Feel is a Very Important Tag), Hopeful Ending, Happy Ending So, probably 90% of this is taken from personal experience—via my life the last seventeen years give or take. I wanted to divulge into the grittier, nastier parts of the whole inner-monologue, and a focus on Eddie having resulting effects from eating something he was unsure of, but I've been struggling a lot recently and just couldn't bring myself to write it. So I went with the sweeter, fluffier route. Maybe I'll come back to this version of Eddie, but as of right now, this is what I offer. Also on AO3 (locked, so make sure you have an account)

🍗—————🍗 He’s biting his tongue.

It’s just a plate of dinner. Dinner that Steve made him. Homemade and neat and hot for the taking. There’s just one problem with it. A big, fat problem.

Among the green beans and the warmed dinner roll and the steaming mashed potatoes, there’s a chicken breast the size of his fist. The chicken is dressed up with a crisp brown outside, flakes of pepper, and a light slathering of garlic sauce. In itself, the chicken isn’t the issue—not yet, at least.

Eddie can’t muster the courage to take a bite because he didn’t watch Steve make it.

That’s been something with him his entire life.

He isn’t sure what really set it off. The dire need to always be in the center of the kitchen, or just outside of it, peering around the corner to see hands flip and toss and slather. It used to drive his dad insane. His six year old son hanging out at his knees, big eyes gazing unblinking at the skillet on the stovetop, tugging on pant legs when the meat was still a little pink.

Before it was just his dad in the picture, his mom used to sit by and teach him all about the cooking process. How to wash the cutting board, to avoid contamination. To always wash his hands, to avoid contamination. Use a different turner in the pan, to avoid contamination.

That word had always struck him like a firm backhand. He’d always been curious, too smart for his own good. And his mom had dictionaries, so he soon learned what it meant. To be contaminated. The contamination that was always talked about, though, was to prevent getting sick. “You always hate being sick, Ed,” she used to tell him, “so make sure to be super duper safe with your food. Okay sunshine?”

He made habits of it. Washing his hands between each step. Then washing them when even a droplet of sauce stained his index finger. Scrubbing away the raw chicken strands on his cutting board, scrubbing harder because he swore there was a piece, just one more piece, there’s a piece and there’s a piece and—he did it until his hands were lobster red from the hot water. And the hot water was good for killing bacteria, so washing his hands became excruciating, but safe. He was always prepared with three or more turners lined up on clean paper towels at the stove. Dish washing liquid on hand.

Another thing that really stood out, and it only stood out once he got real fucking sick, was the part where food sometimes is just served bad. With little or no control over it.

There had been one time—one time—where he went out for breakfast at the local diner. His mom sitting across from him in the booth, their plates saturated with syrup, cheesy eggs on the side. He’d eaten all he had because it had tasted fine, tasted good, tasted perfect. It was safe and it was good and his mom was there smiling at him all sweet, the lights weren’t too bright and the table wasn’t sticky like he hated and the waitress was real pretty.

But then he started puking. And once he started, he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t keep down water, couldn’t muster the appetite for something as bland as toast. His mom got sick, too. There had been the scary hospital with the too bright lights and too many smells, the doctors who talked too loud and the nurses who pressed too hard on his tender head. An egg recall—he didn’t know what that meant, he got too curious again, and then—

Eddie Munson stopped eating eggs.

And since eggs came from chickens…

Eddie Munson stopped eating chickens.

And when he stopped eating chicken, his mom got concerned.

So he ate it for her, learned to like it again little by very little. He still doesn’t like it, still doesn’t enjoy it, but he can keep it down at least. But if the eggs made him sick, then the chicken could, too. If the chicken was pink, even the slightest bit, then he couldn’t eat it.

Couldn’t eat the chicken, couldn’t eat the egg. Couldn’t because his brain wouldn’t allow him to; not some written rule in an uncovered handbook; not a dictation from some government practice; not the conspiracy theorist that used to live up the road. No. It was his own brain.

And what if other animals could make him sick?

Beef couldn’t be pink. Pork couldn’t be tender. Milk couldn’t be past the expiration day by even a minute after midnight. Cheese can’t be moldy, no matter how much his mom said blue cheese was delicious.

Then, things spiraled. Really started to spiral.

Bread was made of animal product. And bread could get moldy. If one piece was bad, then the whole loaf was bad. “Oh, baby, you can just cut the bad parts off,” his mom would say, “it’ll be alright. Plus, saves Mommy money, too.” But the bread was bad. The bread was really bad.

There were bad foods. There were good foods.

The cons list was longer than the pros.

He was skinnier than a string bean, even when he went through puberty. He insisted on packing his own school lunch, even if it cost him more. He insisted on skipping Home EC because he didn’t trust the other students to truly follow safety guidelines. He insisted on watching when Wayne cooked, when Hopper invited him over for a barbecue after Spring Break, when Mrs. Henderson had him over for Christmas.

And he usually watches Steve, too. Steve knows that, at least Eddie believes he does—because he should, shouldn’t he? They’ve been dating for a little over a year now, been friends a while longer. He himself knows that Steve will let him cook if he needs to, but Eddie trusts Steve for the most part. Can trust him to make food, under a gaze of course. But Steve has told him that he doesn’t mind, enjoys the company.

But chicken.

He’s biting his tongue. Even as he cuts through the left side of the breast, slow and meticulous. If it’s too messy of a cut, he won’t be able to see the inside. If he can’t see the inside, he can’t judge the color. No say of what the color is, then he isn’t sure about putting it in his mouth.

Steve’s across from him, already dabbing away at sauce on his lips, teeth grinding against each other as he chews. Eddie is still cutting the meat.

“Y’alright?” Steve asks him around his mouthful.

Eddie briefly glances up. “I’m fine,” he shorts. The knife finally makes contact with his plate, screeching against the porcelain. His fork piercing the freed slab, holding it up close to his face, under the light in Steve’s dining room. The only plus side of this house is the lighting, bright and shiny and perfect for Eddie to use. Usually.

He spins the fork.

It’s pink, a part of him notes, it’s still pink don’t put it in your—No, see, it’s white, that same part says, it’s white right there. It’ll be white everywhere, Steve made it.

Steve cuts his own food again, takes another hearty bite.

Eddie turns the fork once more.

But what if it’s just this one piece that’s perfect? What if Steve didn’t cook the rest of it long enough? He audibly takes a deep breath, his chest filling with it, stomach flipping. Eddie scrapes the piece off his fork, knife dictating it to one side of his plate, and he begins to cut up the rest of the chicken.

“Was that piece not”—

“I’m just checking,” Eddie rushes out. His wrists work faster through the next piece. Turning it. Pink. Next piece. Faster. Flipping it. Pinker. He rests his forearms against the table, wrists going limp over his plate, face tilted towards the ceiling as his eyes close and he breathes again.

Distantly, he calculates the rattling of his chair from his leg bouncing. The tick of the clock. Steve’s chewing. And chewing and chewing and—

He picks up the first piece of chicken and inspects it again, cutting it into smaller, more individual chunks.

What if Steve purposefully didn’t cook it right? What if he’s mad at you for something and this is how he shows it? What if he took the only good piece? What if he didn’t wash the turners and the cutting board and the—

“Ed?” Steve calls out to him. “Do you want me to check, baby?”

Eddie minutely shakes his head. Mumbles, “No, I got it. Don’t worry about it.”

Did he wash his hands? What if he didn’t wash his hands before washing the green beans? And the rolls? Did he heat them up in the same pan as the chicken? The mashed potatoes, do they have chicken in them? The chicken is touching your mashed potatoes right now. The pink chicken is touching your fresh mashed potatoes. Keep cutting the chicken, it’s hard to see if it’s white. What if it isn’t white at all? The chicken is touching your mashed—

He chucks the utensils down onto the table. Hands flying up to cover his eyes, fingers tensing into his hairline. His legs jitter under the table, stomach backflipping into his ribcage, mouth drooling like he’s nauseous. The heels of his palms press hard into his eye sockets, hard enough he can’t see anything aside from the brown-black that exists there. And his breaths wheeze out of him, shaky and unsure.

The rolls could be moldy. Did you check to see if they were moldy? What if Steve cut off the moldy parts? Mold rolls and pink chicken, he must be really mad at you. You did something. The chicken is probably touching your mashed potatoes still, don’t eat the potatoes. The potatoes could’ve been moldy, you didn’t see the potatoes Steve used. What if it’s all moldy? Steve is eating it, though. Steve is eating it. Steve is eating the moldy food and the undercooked chicken. Steve is going to get sick. He’s going to get sick. You’re going to get sick. Steve is eating it and eating it and he doesn’t know, he can’t see it like you can. You’re crazy, you’re just being crazy. It’s moldy. All of it is moldy. It’s raw. The chicken is raw and it’s touching your potatoes. They’re touching. Steve is eating it. Steve is eating the chicken. Steve is eating it. He’s going to get sick. You’re dramatic, just crazy. You’re being crazy. He can’t see it like you can. He’s eating it. You’re crazy. Crazy, you’re just—

“I can’t,” Eddie chokes out, words clogged in congestion and sniffles. “‘M sorry, Steve. ‘M sorry, I’m so sorry,” he weeps softly. The sanctuary of his palms is the only retreat he has from this mild breakdown, tears wetting his hands. Over his caught breathing, he can distantly make out the sounds of Steve setting down his utensils, scooting his chair to Eddie’s side of the table, setting himself in close and warm. “I’m sorry,” he hiccups, “Steve”—

“Shhh,” Steve whispers, “Ed, it’s alright, I promise. It’s alright, baby.”

Blearily, he looks up from his hands, the wood of the dining table. “I can’t—It’s—I can’t eat it, Steve, I can’t do it. I don’t know…”

Steve keeps his hands to himself, twisted nervously in his lap. His eyes are calm, but there’s a gentle crease between his eyebrows—the sure sign of concern. “Is there something I can do to help,” he asks in a hushed voice, “maybe I can check your chicken for you?”

He sniffs, darting his eyes to the plate. “Um…I…I”—underneath the table, his legs begin to jitter again, erratic and upset—“did you wash your hands? No…no you, I trust you, I swear, but I don’t know if you did and I didn’t see you when you were cooking and I just”—

Without moving his hands, Steve gets in a tad closer, leaning against the edge of the table. There’s a softness in Steve’s stare, that concern from earlier mingling with care. Voice quiet, “I’ll go wash my hands right now, Eds. And I’ll come back with a new knife and fork and I’ll check the inside of your chicken. Is there anything else I can do for you right now?”

“No,” he murmurs, “no…not yet.”

The chair creaks as Steve moves, quick and nimble to the kitchen. Distantly, the sink turns on, the soap dispenser pumps, and then the water is obstructed by his hands. He begins a countdown from one hundred twenty in his brain, each number careful to the heart of his metronome. They’ve done a dance like this before. One hundred fifteen. If Steve finishes up too early, Eddie will call out for him to start over. One hundred ten. And the number will restart in his brain, two minutes and counting. Just as he did for himself as a little boy, lobster hands and tears in his eyes, the lemon scent of hand soap stark and true to his nostrils. The sink is still on, though. So far, so good. Eighty-five. Steve’s getting better at it now. A part of Eddie is worried that he’s caught on, that he’s well aware of the weird timer inside of Eddie, trembling and counting, ticking like a bomb. The other part knows that Steve is just being considerate, taking care the way he needs to, the way that’s asked of him. That he takes care of his people, would lay down and die right now if Eddie asked him to. Seventy. Not that he would. He loves Steve too much for that. Sixty-three. He loves Steve a whole hell of a lot, how his brain works, how he manages to just meld to the course. Nobody has ever taken the time to learn the odd intricacies of his brain, has ever taken note of how he cuts his food, the way he grills until things are burnt, hands washing until they turn white by pressing with his fingertips. Forty-seven. Something wriggles in him, pesky and ugly, growling alive that Steve will get tired of this dance. The steps. That he’d realize that Eddie really is just a nuthouse. A basket case. The crazy person that everybody’s warned him about.

His inner dialogue is intense. Needy. A monster of a beast. It’s got fangs and claws and leeches where it can—always. Knows what food shouldn’t look like, an amalgamation born for Eddie’s eyes, the trick of light, the glisten of his fork against the white flesh insides of his chicken. Twenty-six. He wishes that this part of him would hide, dissipate, maybe even die altogether. Lord knows it would save him the time, the energy. That he’d appear healthier, fuller in his flesh, his skin no longer dull or pale. He’d be alive and well, make it through his day with not a care in the world. He could be…a little bit more normal. Fifteen.

That’s just his conscious, though. Steve tells him that everybody is weird. Odd.

Unfortunately, Eddie doesn’t believe him most of the time. Not everybody sees the world he does. Steve sure doesn’t. No matter how much he claims to love Eddie—not that there’s really any doubt just how much—he’ll never understand what it’s like to be him, to live in his skin, to have a constant slew of thoughts that interrogate him until he crashes and burns, asleep and restless for a few hours.

Zero.

Steve comes back into the dining room, his hands still glistening from the water, a new set of utensils in his grip. He settles down in his chair again, drags Eddie’s plate close to him, and sets himself up for the slice and dice.

“Okay,” he murmurs, “how about you watch me cut the chicken, Eds. Anything you think I’m doing wrong, or maybe you need me to check again, I want you to tell me. I want you to tell me to stop, to look over again, or tell me what you need.” Steve’s eyes are on him again, aflame and caring. “Anything at all, Eds, I want you to tell me. Okay?”

Silently, Eddie merely nods in understanding. And then, no further words, Steve begins cutting the chicken into smaller pieces. Every few chunks, he stops to scan each and every piece. Holding them directly to the overhead light as if he’s interrogating them, ready to slap them silly if they say one thing out of line. When he’s satisfied and Eddie doesn’t speak up, Steve sets the chicken back down and moves on.

For the most part, Eddie’s satisfied with how Steve goes about this. He’s not doing anything wrong, not really. Maybe going a bit too quick with a couple pieces. But he reminds himself, intently, that he trusts Steve. He trusts Steve wholly—trusted him with his life at one point, this isn’t anything different. Maybe a lot less intense and a whole lot silly, but Steve treats it as if he’s putting pressure on wounds, as if he’s gearing to lock his elbows and perform CPR.

But then—

“Wait wait wait,” Eddie rushes. Steve stops, just as he said he would. “That one”—he keeps the urgent tone in his voice, no matter how much he wants to squash it—“that one looks pink. It’s wrong, Steve. I can’t—that…that one is bad.” Humiliatingly, the burn of tears is fresh behind his eyes, his lids tight and heavy at the same time, he’s exhausted from it.

Instead of arguing or protesting, Steve simply looks at it again. Rotating it slowly, meticulously. Holds it to the light. Squints. Then, he clicks his tongue. “It’s not pink,” he decides, “but it’s definitely off-white. Maybe that part is a little dry, so the meat doesn’t look as fresh.” He scrapes the piece off the fork, setting it isolated on the edge of the plate. “Do you want to eat it still? Try it again?”

Eddie sucks in a slow breath. Eyes set to the plate, that one dumb chunk of chicken. His pulse rabbits against his throat. Legs ready to twist off his hips and go running for the hills. Wishes that the floor would open up and swallow him whole. Bones and all. “I don’t…I don’t know, Steve. I don’t know, I don’t know,” he mutters, frantic.

Steve gives him a sympathetic nod. “Okay,” he murmurs once more, “then let me lay out some choices, okay? That way, you can just pick whatever is best for you. And…and if none of them work, then you can tell me what to do.”

“Okay.”

“Option one: I can put your food back in a clean pan and heat it up again, you can watch me do it the entire time”—Eddie soaks that up, but shakes his head. Steve’s own food will go cold if he does that.—“option two: I can completely throw out the chicken, reheat the rest of your meal in the microwave and that can be your dinner.”

“The chicken touched my mashed potatoes,” Eddie mumbles, “I can’t eat them.”

Steve, patient as ever, nods again. “The last thing I can think of, then, is that I can heat up one of your safe frozen dinners. There’s beef stroganoff, chicken tenders with macaroni and cheese, sirloin steak with green beans, and…I think there’s one more of the spaghetti and meatballs. Does any of that sound good to you, baby?”

“Mmm…the chicken tenders sound good. Can you heat those up for me, please?”

A gentle kiss is pressed to Eddie’s left temple, sticky and warm. “Of course,” Steve speaks softly, “let me take care of this chicken and I’ll come right out with the other food in a minute, okay?” Nodding against Steve’s mouth, Eddie breathes a small sigh.

At least it wasn’t pink, he’s able to find relief in, Steve can still eat his chicken.

He watches from his spot at the table. Steve scraping the food into the garbage, setting the dirtied plate and utensils into the sink, washing his hands again, and popping that frozen meal into the microwave. His body stays stationed in front of the microwave, watching with a cocked hip and his arms crossed over his chest. There’s a low little string of hums that Steve’s emanating, gentle as they carry themself to Eddie’s ears.

Soon enough, Steve comes back to the dining room, sets the fresh food in front of Eddie, and places himself back at his own plate.

“Thank you,” Eddie says softly—that same wash of relief flowing through him, his empty stomach no longer flipping, but instead rumbling for the new food. It’s not five star dining. It’s not Steve’s homemade meals, but it’s enough for now. It has to be.

“No problem,” Steve says around a mouthful, “I’ve gotta make sure you’re getting something good in your body. Wouldn’t make you just sit there and suffer.”

“I don’t—you don’t understand. You didn’t have to do any of this, really. Honestly, I wouldn’t hold it against you if you made me sit here and swallow down those potatoes. I should’ve, I know. But you…god, Steve. You take care of me in a way I haven’t fully grasped.”

Gently, Steve sets his fork down on his plate with a small clatter. “Babe,” he coos, a bit sad if Eddie picks up on it. He looks up from his chicken tenders. Steve’s tender in his own way. “I don’t fully understand what happens in your head, I probably never will, but I will always—always—make sure you’re taken care of. That you have a hot meal, food that you will definitely eat, and that it’s as fulfilling as it can possibly be. Nothing will change that. Nothing at all.” Steve sets his hand on the surface of the table, skyward so that Eddie grasps to it—he does, even after a few tentative seconds. His thumb traces over the back of Eddie’s hand, rubbing soothingly over his knuckles. “I should’ve waited a bit to make dinner,” Steve says lowly, almost admitting, “I know that you like being able to watch me cook.”

“Yeah, but—I shouldn’t have to”—

“But you do,” Steve points out carefully. “You do and I know that. Even if I sat here and told you every ingredient I used, the fact that I washed every single dish before using it again, and I washed my hands between each step—even if I did that—you wouldn’t feel comfortable. You thought it was pink in the middle. And even though it wasn’t, you still didn’t trust it, and that’s fine. And, if it was pink, I’d want you to tell me.

“You deserve the safety of good food. I’ll do anything to give that to you, I promise.”

Eddie, aside himself, sniffles. His lips wobble. Cheeks heat. “Thank you,” he keens, “really, Steve, thank you.”

Steve squeezes his hand. “Thank you for trusting me,” he whispers, “I’m glad you trust me enough to let me in. To let me help.”

“Even though I mucked up your dinner plans?”

A tug. He looks up from where his eyes wandered. Steve’s stare is intense, but not intimidating. “You didn’t muck up anything, Eddie baby. I have my food. You have the food you know you’re safe with. We’re eating dinner together, holding hands, talking. Nothing would ruin this, what we have.” He leans against the table again, closing the distance between them. Murmurs, “I love your brain. I love your concern. I love your worry. I love that you trust me, that you can reach out to me for help. I love you, Eddie. Nobody else, nothing else.

“You are safe with me, always. Always.”

Eddie lets out a watery laugh. “I know,” he whispers, “nobody else I’d rather fall in love with, Steve, I swear.” He sniffles again, wipes the end of his nose with the back of his hand, and sighs—squeezing Steve’s hand in the process. “You’re gonna make me cry into my chicken tenders, though.”

Steve chuckles. “Sorry,” he sheepishly murmurs. “I just needed you to know all that.”

“I love you, Steve. Thank you for taking care of me.”

There are warm smiles on their faces as Steve finally pulls away. He sighs something completely lovesick—Eddie knows already that he’s a goner. “Now that we’ve basically expressed undying love,” Steve says, “how about we eat and bitch about our days, huh? I’ve got some store bought cookie dough we can make for dessert, if you wanna watch and entertain me.”

“I’d love to. No place I’d rather be, Stevie.”

There’s a million other things that will try and tear him down. Food and stomach turning feelings and the constant stream of numbing self dialogue. But right here? Laughing afterwards? He is safe. For now, he is safe.

And, at the end of the day, after all that—

Being safe is all that matters.

🍗—————🍗 My little taglist for this one <3 : @ilovecupcakesandtea

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #eddie munson has ocd #eddie munson has arfid #read all tags and cws #angst and hurt/comfort #happy ending #hopeful ending

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twirlymarimo · 4 days ago

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twirlymarimo's 2024 year-end zosan fic rec!

after a full orbit around the sun reading zosan fanfics, i decided to make a list of recommendations bringing light to these beautiful pieces of work, whether it made my heart hurt, made me laugh, or just simply hooked to the story. enjoy reading!

☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★

i would give you my heart, i think by fairv it's not finished but the first chapter is an absolute banger. multiple angsty trope in one - canonical character death, pining, miscommunication, friends to lovers, secret dating, what more could you ask for. i constantly find my self thinking about this story and i wish i was patient enough to wait for the finished work. this one deserves a lot more kudos!

homesick by summerofspock another mystery banger from summer! the vibe is twin peaks meets teen wolf and the premise is angsty but fluff is sprinkled here and there to keep our hearts stable.

insiduous by riotoftime and aevv the dynamic duo of the century that brought us tin lover is back with a new world to take over our minds with every update. their synchronized writing style reads like a book, just take a look at the world building in this one. the story is starting to pick up just like the intense dynamic between our two faves.

a heavy heart to carry by inkinmyheart i realized none of the first recs are finished, my bad but this one is! i typically avoid vampire aus because trauma from reading twilight but the concept here is interesting! i always enjoy ptsd sanji and the build up to the ending/reveal was satisfying.

the proposal by brunetta6 a well-written adaptation of the rom-com classic, the proposal. the accurate description of hokkaido brought me back down memory lane when i visited in 2023. hilarious dialogues with a tiny slice of angst makes a perfect pick-me-up read in the winter time.

lost myself when i caught sight of you by thecrownofclowns the sigh i let out after reading this. so hauntingly beautiful, like one of the fics that made me believe zosan is canon lol if this was a song, it would be a house in nebraska by our queen ethel cain

the knight shift by strawhatbougie inspired by THAT photo that circulated the internet, the author brought justice to what the audience wants - sanji in white fishnet leggings.

the mummy by greenyogurtelephant i love movie adaptations as you can see lol i read this on my e-reader in the summer and it was so hilarious, entertaining, and truly fits the essence of zosan. i would suggest to watch the actual movie either before or after reading the fic.

loose ends of the night by veto_power_over_clocks if you like pain like me, the first 4 chapters are all about miscommunication and wanting to smack both of these guys' heads and screaming at them the entire time. zoro POV too which is so rare these days but author delivered!

this post has been deleted. by evils if you love social media au but need it in a written format, this one is for you! a mix of comedy, fluff, and a slice of angst thru miscommunication.

seagrain by fruityumbrella ever thought about what would happen if sanji and zoro find out they've both done the one thing that make up their very core? "you know what, hell yeah," author fruityumbrella said.

thank you for reading if you made it this far! i have way more fics that i liked this year but i only got my account a couple of months ago so i couldn't track the ones i read earlier in the year. i also tried to feature ones that are not from well-known authors but i still had to give credit where it's due ;) thank you to all zosan writers for keeping my mental health stable (or maybe not for adding to my delusions about these two) <3

if you liked any of the fics above, please don't forget to give kudos, comment and bookmark! writers work so hard to give us amazing stories and they take so much time out of their schedules to do so.

if you're interested in more of my fic recs, you can check out my ao3 bookmarks here.

#zosan #fic rec #zosan fic rec

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aeneaans · 1 year ago

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second chances

synopsis: after 3 years, diluc finally returns to mondstadt.

word count: 608

c/w: angst sorta… hurt/comfort

a/n: yet another repost from ao3 because i do not have the time to write anything these days… didnt expect my last post to get so many notes THANK YOU!!!! thank u for reading :3 (ps might open reqs soon. idk im working on a lot of stuff for tumblr)

It was dead silent. In a small alley in Mondstadt stood you and Diluc, standing parallel to each other as your face burned, tears sliding down your cheeks. No words have been exchanged ever since tears started welling up in your eyes. The lack of words was awkward and almost deafening, yet it didn’t matter to you. You were furious and you hadn’t even a clue as to why. The man that stood in front of you was clearly frustrated as well, but his frustration didn’t seem to be directed towards you. Rather, it was a frustration directed towards himself. Why? Why couldn't he say anything?

Biting your lips, you start, “Seriously, what…what is wrong with you?” Your voice is trembling, almost as if your words are struggling to escape. Whenever you got angry, you could never put your thoughts into words. Your only reaction to anger was to cry. To cry, and to never stop crying until you had sorted out these thoughts. Knowing you for so long, Diluc has taken note of this peculiar habit of yours. Even if he could say anything about the current situation, he would know best to not do so.

Words were practically stuck in your throat. You didn’t want to say anything to hurt him, yet you can’t help but be upset with him. That’s only natural, right? You inhale. “You leave Mondstadt for so long and—and you come back just to not be able to say anything.” Your voice is breaking in between each word. “Say something!” Your voice was hoarse, despite not having said much at all. Your attempt at a shout was more of a meek yelp. Diluc didn’t say anything, nothing at all. He just…stood there. You wipe your eyes quickly, your breath hitched, and attempt to regain your composure.

After a few minutes of absolutely nothing, you manage to regain your composure. You knew it wasn’t his fault. You knew that leaving Mondstadt wasn’t something he wanted to do. So why couldn't you forgive him?

“I hate that you left us. I hate that you left me. But I hate myself for wanting to hate you, too.” Diluc looks up at you, surprised. “I know you didn’t have a choice to leave. I couldn’t even imagine what you went through when Crepus died.” You sigh. Crepus was more of a dad to you than your actual parents were. You know how much worse Diluc had it. “So why do I feel this way?” Diluc clenched his fists. What is he going to say? Was he even going to say anything at all? You shut your eyes.

Finally, Diluc opens his mouth to say something. “I’m sorry.”

You held your breath, not knowing what to say. “…Huh?”

“You have every right to hate me.”

With this, your eyes started pouring again. Though, the tears felt much lighter this time. What is he talking about? You let out a small laugh at the stupidity of this situation. How is it that both of you feel sorry? You step closer to him, ignoring his apology. “Do you understand how much I missed you?” You look him in the eyes for the first time in three years. Three years. “I can’t bring myself to hate you, even after this. There wasn’t a day that went by where I haven’t thought of you.” You grit your teeth, clenching your fist slightly before relaxing your body. With that one statement, Diluc’s eyes widened. It’s a rare sight, really. “Promise me you wont leave me ever again. Please.”

Diluc pulls you to his chest and gives you a tight embrace. “I promise.”

#diluc ragnivindr x reader #diluc ragnvindr #diluc x reader #diluc x you #genshin diluc #genshin fanfic #genshin impact #genshin x reader #diluc angst #genshin angst

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captain-joongz · 7 days ago

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thank you so much for the tag @shadowkoo! it's such an interesting idea and i loved delving into my blog in this way <3

i've only been writing on here for a little less than a year, but i'm so damn grateful for the lovely community that opened their arms to me, and loved on my works and made me feel accepted.

i struggled a lot in this year and the one before, mainly because i felt super burnt out and like i trapped myself in a situation where i felt unmotivated. starting to write was my escape and my attempt to bring back some creativity and joy to my life, and it worked out better than i could have hoped for!

so thank you, for an amazing year that i truly enjoyed more than the last few all thanks to having a creative outlet here! <3

and thank you for leaving so much lovely feedback on my blog, i truly couldn't have asked for better readers!

the first fic i actually posted on my blog was Heroes, which was posted almost whole six months before i truly became active on here!

the first official fic that started off this blog then became Abraxas ch.1, which was posted on 16th of February, a day after my birthday!

number of fics posted : 7 one-shots, 8 chapters across 3 series, 18 drabbles during the hard hours

together that makes almost 225k words total!

number of fics in progress : 7 new fics + 3 new chapters

Tits out

Wooyoung x reader, bffs2l, college au, smut | 7k words

posted: March 3rd

this was my first one-shot posted, and the rush of adrenaline i felt when i woke up the next day and there was 99+ icon on my activity was indescribable. I'll never forget breaking my first 1000 notes on my first fic and getting my first comments!

thank you so much, everyone <3

Deserve you

Seonghwa x reader, brother-in-law!Hwa, wedding night au, pure angsty porn | 18.5k words

posted: July 17th

I remember working on this fic relentlessly and being so proud of it! I had a major break-down in April and left school, and wasn't writing for some time because i wasn't in the mental space to, and this was the first thing i poured my heart into when i got back into my fics. the idea has been stewing in my mind for months at that point, and i felt so fulfilled finally putting it out!

thank you to everyone who loved this fic and lost their minds to me about it, i loved watching your reactions more than anything!

Dragonheart

OT7!BTS x reader, dragon au, dragon-rider au, high fantasy | currently sits at 36k words

first posted: July 9th (the masterlist) | August 14th (the first chapter)

My first OT7 project! I love dragons so much, and having the chance to write about them is such a passion of mine! i have so much in store for this story, so much to unfold and such a journey to take, all the while making this a love song to the mythical creatures I've always been obsessed with and to the seven boys who helped me stay sane!

and of course, to you my readers, who supported this series and have endless patience with me while i write new chapters for you!

According to my AO3 stats, the favourites are vastly different on there than they are here!

On my account there, the favourites are as follows :

1.Dragonheart

2.A little show

Yoongi x reader, college au, s2l, fluffy smut | 9.6k words

posted: April 21st

3.Tits out

4.Deserve you

5.Cinderella

Yoongi x reader x Hoseok, club owners au, s2l, smut | 19.7k words

posted: September 17th

Abraxas, ch.2

Yoongi x reader, mob boss au, police officer au, investigative, crime | the series currently sits at 78k words

this chapter has over 39k words, and it's the longest I've ever written - it even had to be split up into two parts for the ease of reading!

Penny for your ghosts, ch.2

OT7!BTS x reader, hybrid au, supernatural au, ghost hunting au | this series currently sits at almost 20k words

i posted this chapter after months of not being active, on the 24th of December, like a little present for all my patient darlings!

Deserve you

Seonghwa x reader, brother-in-law!Hwa, wedding night au, pure angsty porn | 18.5k words

posted: July 17th

As i said before, i do have quite the soft spot for this fic, and it's very close to my heart, but i do genuinely think that this is some of my best writing, and i re-read it occasionally haha. i feel that this was some of my most creative time, and i wrote this fic with an ease, as if the words just wanted to come out and i was simply their medium. though Tits out is definitely up there too!

i've been periodically putting out fic recs and talked about my favourite fics, so if you're interested, check out my library!

otherwise, the few absolute favourites that i'd choose would be these:

Ugh, as if! by @ennysbookstore (khj x reader)

Look after you by @mingigoo (khj x reader)

Plug & Play by @bangtanintotheroom (khj x reader)

we can't be friends by @jensthwa (cs x reader)

obliviate me by @bvidzsoo (psh x reader)

home for the holidays by @highvern (jwy x reader)

Masked miracles by @remedyx (bts x reader)

Trouvaille by @spookyserenades (bts x reader)

fast lane by @yminie (ksj x reader)

fail-safe by @jiminrings (myg x reader)

love roulette by @whatifyoulivelikethat (myg x reader)

strike a chord by @snackhobi (myg x reader)

Illicit favours by @yoongiofmine (myg x reader)

petty by @hamsterclaw (jjk x reader)

package deal by @hoseokhasmyheartxx (myg x reader x jhs)

Sex & Candy by Marcy Playground

Nothing Matters by The Last Dinner Party

Too Sweet by Hozier

Dis-ease by BTS

Wonderful Nothing by Glass Animals

Love Again by Dua Lipa

Come back to me by RM

Set Me Free pt.2 by Jimin

So Beautiful by DPR Ian

D-Day by Agust D

Peanut Butter & Tears by DPR Ian

UGH! by BTS

La Bohéme by Charles Aznavour

Light My Love by Greta van Fleet

Run BTS by BTS

to get back into writing, as i will have more free time, to finish the requests that i've gotten and haven't found the time to write, to pour my heart into updating the series i've started

to experiment more with my writing and my genres and try something new

to post a Halloween fic that i didn't have time to write for this year's Halloween

to turn cherry-yoongs from a side-project into a fully functioning fic library/review blog

to continue growing and to never lose the spark for writing <3

and here we are! the end <3 this was super fun to make, and i loved sharing this with you, so thank you once again to Raven, who tagged me in hers!

i hope that whatever comes to us in 2025, we'll make the year our own and continue soaring even higher into the sky 🩷🥂

and also special thanks to my three anonies ✨💋🪷, thank you for reaching out and hanging out!

tagging (if you feel like it, if not, definitely don't feel pressured into making this <3) :

@spookyserenades @remedyx @potatomountain + anyone else who sees this and feels inspired to make one!

#captain-joongz #2024 wrapped #tumblr wrapped

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bittercideristaken · 15 days ago

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I passed out fourteen times but here's my pointy objects fanart I've been working on for literally months and only now got a break from school and work to finish

(this is fanart from an ao3 fic called of gods, monsters, and pointy objects made for @gontagokuhara !!! I hope you're feeling better from covid!! I promise I won't feel bad about how long this took if YOU don't feel bad about the time this next chapter is taking, MASTERPIECES TAKE TIME!!!)

I had (have) more art planned but I didn't want to wait forever to post this, it's the reason as to why I haven't commented yet!! I was trying to finish this first and then I didn't have time LMFAOO I hope you like it!

Baby (giant) Gonta being raised (literally) by Nagito, distracted by a cool beetle!

2. Angie and her mom(s) off their island's shore....

3. Kaede in Chapter 10, after the RV explosion, in the bathroom of Mikan's cottage....

4. Ibuki and her daughter, Kanami, waking up in a panic after the attack

(Non)surprisingly, I think it'd be fun to also share some of my pointy objects headcanons in this same post! I wrote down a LOT of them in my notes app overtime, and they're mostly camp-based. But since this is long I'll just put it under the cut ;)

• Miu's hair used to be the exact shade of blonde as kaede, but she dyed it pink with manic panic and it's NEVER come out

• Nagito and Ibuki were already friends, but only started becoming close after the Tsumugi incident bc of their shared grief and self-doubts... she basically stayed at camp the whole time while the triplets healed up until Junko banned parents from seeing their kids

• Ryoma was a daily smoker before coming to camp, but Nagito encouraged him to switch to nicotine patches

• The counselors didn't realize Gonta needed glasses for a HOT minute until one day while Hajime was trying to set up a lesson plan for his schooling and couldn't figure out why Gonta's reading comprehension went way down when they used a chalkboard... and they're like "...can you NOT see it?😟" like "oh. well he needs glasses, thats it" *facepalm*

• Tenko goes to a lot of girl group concerts with Himiko and Peko! So when she comes to camp, Kiibo begs her to show them the videos 😭

• Sometimes someone gets sick and can't do dinner duty, and sometimes Nagito says "I'll cook" and everyone rejoices because they KNOW it's a pizza night 😭 they literally bet on how long he'll be struggling in the kitchen until they hear the car leaving camp

• Miu is a SERIAL clothing theif, even though she constantly hates on everyone's style/says their clothes are too big/small for her anyway. Kaede is a constant victim of this 😭 she'll tear up her closet looking for a specific top in the morning and then come out to breakfast to see Miu wearing it (it has caused physical fights)

• Angie and Tenko always show up with the cutest hair with all kinds of accessories. They're the best at braiding and most of the camp has had their hair braided at least three times in one summer.

• Kaede and Kirumi are pretty damn good at sewing! The long haulers bring Kaede things that need mending when Kirumi isn't there lol, and Kaede makes all her own Halloween costumes! (And trades her chore duties to help others with their own costumes)

• Rantaro is GENUINELY a tiktok star 💀 he did musical.lys to cringey music unironically when he was like 12 but ppl really started following him for his aesthetic travel videos, and "dying my hair/piercing myself at 3am bc I'm bored" videos (also some unfortunate thirst traps and dance videos💀) Shuichi shows up in the background sometimes and Rantaro teases him because ppl keep commenting "WHO THAT IN THE BAAAAACCKKKK" but yeah he doesn't take it crazy seriously or post very often

• Himiko has known Hajime/Nagito the longest of all the campers (they literally changed her diapers for Chiaki) but she used to hide behind her mom's legs as a toddler bc she was shy 🥺

• Miu works better with music on, it's like her only real psychological tie to her Godly parent (other than the attitude)💀 she dances around her room while working on projects and turns the music up REALLY loud in her cabin and makes everyone complain until she's gifted a pair of really good headphones for Christmas

• Angie also LOVES to surf, Sakura wasn't the best surfer before but she literally learned just so she could surf with her daughter 🥺 it makes her feel closer to Aoi

• Sometimes when the counselors are SUPER overwhelmed they literally say that they've been called to a meeting and just take the weekend off somewhere 💀💀💀 usually one stays behind but it's something they've NEVER admitted to even though the triplets have definitely figured it out after Hajime came back from a """""meeting"""""" with a trinket for his office 💀

• (KINDA NSFW) But Ibuki has had the most relationships with other gods out of everyone else followed by Makothoe 😭 This doesn't really say much it's just a record bc the gods have relationships with humans anyway 💀 if you account for humans it's probably Leon or Teru LMAOOOO (honorable mention to the imposter because LMFAOOOO but I headcanon he has like real relationships with humans and sticks with them for a while not necessarily uhhh yk)

• Most of the gods are used to acclimating themselves to their time, but like, sometimes they still don't catch up with EVERYTHING and they act like parents who struggle to get Siri to work or squint when they have to use a phone (The counselors got sick of a 12 y/o Kokichi asking if they had games on their phone and kokichi got sick of them saying "a telephone was made for calling people" so he got a phone slightly before the other campers 😭) (Byakuya and Makoto got a smartfridge that they STILL struggle to work 💀) (Taka's face turns red after the first 10 minutes he takes to connect a bluetooth device to his car)

• Vocal stims spread across camp like wildfire until Hajime nearly tears his hair out begging them to stop (vocal stims ALSO linger in MEETINGS LMFAOO I think the indubitably bit in sdr2 was so real and funny 😭)

• Baby rantaro was DRIPPED TF OUT💀 Makoto and Byakuya had him in designer clothes as a toddler, to the point where reporters/business partners were suggesting he go into junior modeling because he was such an adorable kid! Makoto likes to tease/brag to Rantaro about it lol. He still has the toddler clothes stored away and a bunch of photos of baby rantaro in formal wear😭

• Kaito has a scar on his stomach from when he tried to fight off the monsters that killed his grandparents

• Kaede is "talking smart", and so is her twin, Miu, but it SHOWS when she's talking trash about someone 😭 she has an Azealia Banks level of world-ending, life-changing reads at the tip of her tongue

OKAY THATS ALL FOR NOW BYEEEEEEE

#danganronpa #gonta gokuhara #nagito komaeda #angie yonaga #sakura ogami #ibuki mioda #kanami mioda #kaede akamatsu #pointy objects #danganronpa fanart

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nekoannie-chan · 10 months ago

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Getting to know each other again

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Reader.

Word count: 400 words.

Rating: Teen.

Summary: All Steve wants is to get you back.

Major Tags: Fluff, angst, mention of amnesia.

Additional tags: This is my gift to @sinceimetyou. HAPPY BIRTHDAY GABY!

You can read it on Wattpad and Ao3 too.

My native language is Spanish so I wanna improve my writing skills in English if you notice any mistakes, please let me know and I will correct them.

I don’t give any kind of permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or languages (I translate myself my work) or the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this), I did them exclusively for my fics, please respect my work and don't steal it. There are some people here who make dividers that anyone can use, mine is not this type, please look for the other people. The only exception is the ones I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. If you find any of my works on a different platform and are not one of my accounts, please let me know. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.

Add yourself to my taglist here.

My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.

If you like it, please vote, comment, and give me feedback to improve my skills and reblog.

Tags: @unnuevosoltransformalarealidad @navybrat817 @angrythingstarlight @shield-agent78 @charmed-asylum @pandaxnienke @real-fbi @Smokeandnailz @white-wolf1940 @tenaciousperfectionunknown @xoxonotme @bluemusickid @leyannrae @Harrysthiccthighss @Marvelatthisone @caplanbuckybarnes @sapphire-rogers @lizzieolseniskinda @notyourtypicalrose @hallecarey1 @nana1000night @talia-rumlow @writingshae @alexxavicry @azulatodoryuga @daemonslittlebitch @chaoticcollectivenightmare @endlesstwanted @chemtrails-club @marigoldreamer @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @Here4thefanfics @theestorm @patzammit @kmc1989 @somegirlfromasgard @rogersbarber

Steve woke up agitated again. Again, he had that nightmare about the day you disappeared and how your body vanished between his fingers. If they had left him, he would have finished off Thanos himself with his own hands.

He had searched through many books, through your things, everywhere. He needed a solution, a way he could bring you back.

The emptiness of being without you was enormous, and nothing could fill it. He tried to occupy his mind with different activities, but one way or another, everything always came back to you.

Several times he thought that there must be some way to go back in time, and he didn't even care if he had to start all over again; he was able to do whatever it took to bring you back.

He ran as fast as he could when he saw they were coming back. He didn't want you to be alone; it would probably be too confusing. He didn't have much time to think about how he was going to explain to you what had happened.

He stopped when he was close; he took a breath; he needed to calm down first; you couldn't see him so upset either; although it was obvious that he couldn't hide what had happened, he couldn't wipe the passage of time from his face.

“Y/N," Steve said carefully.

You looked at him confused; you didn't know what had happened.

“What happened? What am I doing here? “you questioned, looking around you. Steve was about to answer you when you interrupted him. “Who are you?"

Now Steve was the one who was confused, but then he remembered that maybe there was a slight possibility that you had suffered a blow to the head just before you disappeared; in fact, you were unconscious when he hugged you before you vanished.

He bit his lip, trying to contain all the feelings that were welling up inside him. He managed to convince you to go with him.

"Y/N has amnesia." Those words kept echoing in Steve's head, but he wasn't going to give up hope, not this time; somehow he was going to make you regain your memory, and if not, then he was going to make you get to know each other again, like in the beginning, until you fell in love with him again.

He wasn't going to lose you again.

#Happy Birthday Gaby!#steve rogers x reader

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ang3lc · 27 days ago

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Panther | Genesis

[PREV] | [NEXT]

MASTERLIST AO3

cw: strong language, depictions of violence, 8.7k words

DEC - 1999

The snowfall that winter was an anomaly. In Georgia, snow was a rare visitor, quickly turning the world outside into something almost unrecognizable. The ground was blanketed with a thin, delicate sheet of white, covering the earth with a tranquility that felt foreign to me. The air was crisp, the world hushed beneath a muted sky, as though time itself had slowed in reverence to the falling flakes. It was a brief stillness—an illusion of peace—before the inevitable return to the harsh rhythms of my Pa's world.

My Pa , unlike the rest of us, paid no attention to the snow. To him, the quiet of the world was an inconvenience, something to be disturbed, something that demanded a response. He didn't see the serenity in the falling flakes; instead, he sought the violence that could rupture it. I recall him stepping onto the back porch with his hunting rifle in hand, the barrel gleaming under the pale light, the weight of the gun heavy in his grip. The contrast between the serenity of the snow and the aggression of his actions struck me even then.

He would set up bottles, lined them along the fence posts on the property line, and shoot at them with mechanical precision. Each shot rang out, loud and jarring against the stillness, the sharp sound of the gunfire shattering the calm like glass. I remember watching from the window, my small hands pressed against the cold glass, as I studied the way he aimed, how the trigger squeezed under his finger with calculated ease. It was a ritual, a display of control over the world around him. But to me, it felt more like an act of desperation, as though the peace of the snow itself offended him.

One memory from that time remains vivid, its imprint on my mind as clear as the day it happened. I was four years old when he took me on my first hunting trip. To him, it was a rite of passage—an initiation into the world of men. He had insisted that I come along, despite my reluctance, and it was less a father-daughter outing and more of a test. I had no desire to kill, no understanding of why someone would want to take the life of something as innocent as a rabbit. But to him, that wasn't an option. He needed me to be tough.

I remember walking through the woods beside him, the crisp winter air biting at my cheeks, the ground hard beneath my boots. It was all a blur of cold and confusion, a sense of being out of place in a world I didn't fully understand. Then, we found the rabbit—small, brown, and unsuspecting of us as we watched it from a far.

My Pa's voice was like a command, rough and unyielding as he placed a too-big rifle into my hands. "Shoot it."

I froze, the weight of the rifle in my hands feeling unnatural, too heavy for someone so small. My heart hammered in my chest as I looked at the creature through the cross-hair, its life hanging in the balance, and I couldn't bring myself to pull the trigger. I began to cry for the animal, for the violence that he was demanding.

I can still hear his voice, low and sharp, as he growled, "Y'gon' shoot it. This how thangs work. You pull that trigger, or you ain't never gon' be worth a damn to nobody. Weakness'll cost ya everythin'."

I wanted to explain to him that it wasn't about weakness—that I just didn't understand why I had to be the one to end another life. But I couldn't. I was too small, too frightened, and my tears mixed with the cold air, freezing against my skin as I tried, and failed, to comply.

He didn't say anything after that. He just snatched the rifle back from me, the rabbit hopping away, unfazed. The silence between us was heavy with the unspoken weight of his disappointment. He didn't need to explain his anger—he didn't need to explain anything.

That was the first order I was ever given: to take a life. And the first lesson I learned was that no explanation was necessary. It didn't matter if you didn't understand it, if it didn't make sense, or if it shattered something inside of you. The world was harsh, and if you didn't act, you were weak. And weakness? Weakness would cost you everything.

AUG - 2000

Growing up in the South had a way of making me feel like the world was smaller, more confined—like I was tucked away in a corner where no one could hear me scream, even if I wanted to. The outskirts of Macon were quiet. It was the kind of place where the only things that mattered were the things that were close to you—your house, your family, your church. If you were lucky, you'd get a taste of something bigger, something outside of the small-town grind. But for most of us, there was nothing more than the dirt roads, trees that stretched on for miles, and swamp.

The heat in Georgia was relentless in the summer, and the thick humidity hung over everything like a weighted blanket. I grew up knowing nothing but isolation, nothing but the quiet sound of cicadas in the trees and the common, distant rumble of thunder. My mother, a soft-spoken woman with a gentle smile, was as much a product of her surroundings as the tall oak trees that shaded our porch. But my dad—he was different. He wasn't shaped by the ground he walked on. His roughness came from somewhere deeper, somewhere colder. And it was festering under the surface.

By the time I turned five, the quiet nights that used to be filled with bedtime stories were replaced with the sound of Pa's anger. My Ma's gentle hum as she went about the house was drowned out by his yelling, his demands. I remember hearing the creak of the floorboards, the heavy boots thudding against the old wood as he came home from work. And if he wasn't greeted with his beer, if dinner wasn't on the table and hot, it was like a switch flipped inside him. The man I knew as my Pa would vanish, replaced by something darker. His face would contort with rage, his hands would go to places they shouldn't, and his voice would shake the foundation house.

It wasn't something I could ignore, no matter how hard I tried to. At five years old, I could understand. Old enough to know that something was wrong with the world around me, something was ugly.

I watched it all, even if I wasn't meant to. Ma tried to keep it together, trying to act like everything was fine. Her eyes would flicker with fear whenever he walked into a room, and I hated it. But I couldn't stop it. I could never stop it.

I tried to help. I tried to stop him. I would run to my dad's side, pulling at his pant leg, begging him to stop. But my Ma would just shove me into the closet, that same damn closet I had been hidden in so many times before. She locked me in, like she always did so I couldn't see. But I couldn't stop myself. I always watched through the key hole.

I once heard her scream as he shoved her down the basement stairs. The sickening sound of her body hitting each step, the sharp crack of bones breaking—it froze me where I stood. My legs felt like lead, refusing to move even as my heart begged me to run to her. When my father stomped off, his rage momentarily spent, I crept to the basement door and opened it just a sliver.

She was lying in a twisted heap at the bottom of the staircase, her body crumpled like a broken doll. My voice trembled as I called out, "Ma? Are you okay?"

For a moment, all I heard was her shallow, labored breathing. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she murmured, "I'm alright, B...Bumble Bea. Close the door..."

I didn't understand. The words didn't make sense, but the raw pain in her voice did. My hands shook as I pushed the door shut, leaving it cracked just enough to keep her in my line of sight if Pa came back. I stood there, unable to do anything, listening to her hurt, feeling the weight of my own helplessness.

I was five, but the shame already settled in me, the feeling that I wasn't enough to protect her, to stop him. I wasn't strong enough. I wasn't enough for her.

SEP - 2003

The years that followed blurred into an overwhelming haze of tension, fear, and helplessness. Each day felt like an endurance test—an effort to survive in a house where danger lurked in the form of unpredictable rage. My existence became about one thing: remaining unnoticed. The darker the mood in the house, the more I learned to fade into the shadows, to stay just beyond his reach, hidden but hyper-aware of the chaos unfolding just out of view.

I learned to be invisible. The kind of invisible that becomes second nature, where a person doesn't speak unless spoken to, doesn't move unless absolutely necessary. In my case, that wasn't just a survival mechanism. It was my only means of keeping myself safe from the unpredictable violence that was unleashed on our home. I would find refuge in quiet corners, under tables, behind curtains, anything that shielded me from my Pa's wrath. And yet, no matter how far I buried myself, I couldn't unsee what he was doing to her.

There was no escaping it.

The bruises, the blood, the hollow look in my Ma's eyes—these things became etched into my memory, irreversible. The years blurred, but the moments of violence remained seared into my mind. I couldn't block out the sounds of her screams, the smacking of his fists against flesh, the muffled pleas for him to stop. And yet, no matter how much I wished I could erase the image of him hurting her, I never could.

Anger started to take hold. It didn't arrive like a wave crashing onto the shore. No, it grew inside me, slow and steady, festering like a rot in marrow of my bones as I watched her slip further away. She was disappearing. The woman I had known as my mother—strong, proud, full of light—was being chipped away. I could see the sadness in her eyes, but more than that, I felt it all swirling inside of me with every blow, every tear she shed.

One night, the house felt like tense, air thick enough to choke on. When it storms here, it doesn't just rain; it roars, it shakes, it consumes. And that night, Pa's drunken voice was the lightening, bright and harsh, flashing through the house as his footsteps stomped from room to room.

Ma tried to quiet the storm, her voice soft, trembling like the first drops of rain, but it never stopped the flood. It never worked. It never did.

But tonight was different. I wasn't hiding in the shadows. I wasn't sitting quietly, I was waiting for the loud boom that always followed the harsh strikes of white. I was waiting. I couldn't let him hurt my Ma anymore.

And then it came. I saw him—his hands tightening around her neck from behind, forcing her to watch her own suffering in the hallway mirror, the panic in her eyes reflected back at her. But I saw it all: the fear, the desperation, the way her skin flushed purple with the struggle for air.

And suddenly, all I could think—the only thing I could think—was that this was my shot.

The gun. I could picture the location in my mind: the drawer beside his bed, the cold metal of the gun resting inside. My legs carried me there before my brain had time to catch up. The door creaked open, and I pulled the drawer open with a shaking hand, grabbing the weight of the cold steel.

But then something shifted. My mind dragged me to a year ago, to that hunting trip, to the feeling of the rifle in my tiny arms as I aimed at the rabbit in the field. I couldn't pull the trigger. I had seen the innocence in the creature, and I couldn't bring myself to take its life. It would've been a predator's kill—a kill he had delighted in.

I ran back to my dad with a raised gun and shaky hands. I saw him through the rear-sight of the heavy pistol, his face twisted in a mask of rage, her eyes rolling back and fluttering shut. I only saw a monster. For a moment, everything felt still. Here I was, holding a gun once more, only this time the target wasn't innocent

I felt the anger flood through me—hot, fierce, primal. It wasn't the kind of anger you felt when someone took your toy, or when someone pushed you on the playground. No, this was something deeper. Something older. A hatred so pure and aged it had boiled my blood and imbedded itself into my DNA for life.

I had to use both index fingers to pull the trigger.

The noise was deafening. The world seemed to halt, the shot reverberating through the house. Pa crumbled, his grip loosening on my mom, his body collapsing in a lifeless heap onto the floor.

My breath, my heart—it all stopped for a moment. My ears still rung as I dropped the gun. My body slumped to the floor, staring at the crumpled figure of the man who had terrorized us for so long. My mother sat, equally as crumpled next to his body. She just stared at him, not a single sound leaving her.

The police arrived around an hour later, distance and all that. Their flashing lights painted the house with an eerie red and blue glow. They spoke to my mother, who was dazed, her eyes blank, unable to process what had just happened. They spoke to me, too, asking questions I didn't know how to answer. They called it self-defense, said I was justified. But I knew that wasn't true.

I had killed him. And nothing, not the justification, not the police reports—could ever change that.

JULY - 2009

The aftermath of my Pa's death was a strange, hollow silence that hung over everything. Ma became a ghost of herself. The woman who had loved me, who had held me when I was scared, when I was sick, became a quiet, broken shell. She drank to forget, but all it did was make her disappear more. She wasn't cruel or neglectful, but the years of living with my Pa had broken her spirit in a way even his death couldn't fix. She was just... lost.

I took care of her. I had no other choice. I bathed her, dressed her, cooked for her, did everything I could to make sure she was still alive. With every passing day, I saw her slipping further away, her eyes distant, melancholy etched into her smile lines. She still showed me love in her own way. She'd hum appreciatively when I brushed her dark hair, she'd hold my hand tight when I'd kiss her goodnight, but it was never the same. I couldn't stop seeing how I had failed her, how I had become the reason she was like this.

I hated it. I hated how I blamed myself. If I hadn't shot my Pa , if I had just been able to save her without everything falling apart... I couldn't shake the thought that it was all my fault.

By the time I was fourteen, things had only gotten worse. I should've been thinking about school dances, hanging out with friends, or grades. But there were no dances, no friends. There was just survival. My dad's life insurance policy had been helping us get by with the bills, but it ran out. Some legal jargon I couldn't understand, something about premiums or what-not. But we were broke. My Ma couldn't work and I had to step up.

I dropped out of high school to find a job. I wasn't old enough, but it didn't matter. The world had already passed me by, and the only thing left to focus on was survival—paying the bills, keeping the roof over our heads, making sure there was food on the table. I took the GED as fast as I could and somehow passed. I went looking for work and it was always the same bullshit. Sorry, you don't have enough experience. Sorry, you're too young. They didn't see me, not really. Just another desperate face, another invisible person trying to survive in a world that had no more room.

After running into nothing but dead ends, I grabbed Pa's old '85 Yamaha VMAX and made the hour-and-a-half ride to Atlanta. I wasn't supposed to be behind the wheel of anything, let alone a motorcycle—too young, too reckless, too desperate—but I didn't have a choice. The bills were piling up back home, and Mama was too far gone to even notice, let alone help.

So I swallowed the knot of fear in my stomach, swung my leg over the bike, and hit the road. One of the few useful things my sorry excuse for a father ever taught me was how to ride, and for once, I was grateful for it.

The bike's engine rumbled as I pulled into the city, my hands tight on the handlebars as I parked the bike behind a dumpster. I covered the bike with trash from the dumpster, hopefully it was enough to keep it hidden. The feeling of control kept the jitters at bay. I couldn't go back home empty-handed. I had to make money, and fast.

I'd learned to be observant over the years—street smarts, the kind you don't get in school, picked up from stealing from the supermarket and pickpocketing people on the bus. I kept my head down as I wandered Atlanta's gritty streets, sticking to the shadows. But I'd soon learn the shadows were the last place I should've been. I avoided the pimps who tried to recruit me—fat men sizing me up like I was something they could own. But I knew better. I'd learned the dangers of men young, and I wasn't looking for that trouble. I wasn't that desperate. Not yet, anyway.

It didn't take long for me to spot something else— some men on street corners, cash in hand, glancing over their shoulders as they leaned against brick walls. I didn't know exactly what they were selling, but I had a good guess: drugs. I watched them until the sun dipped and the streetlights flickered on, hiding behind some trash cans, trying to figure out how to approach. I knew opportunity when I saw it.

I took a breath and forced myself forward, each step heavier than the last, my chest tight with the pounding of my heart. I told myself the same thing over and over: The quicker I did this, the quicker it'd be over, and I could go home. When I finally reached them, my voice came out steadier than I'd expected, cutting through the night like I belonged there.

"Can I sell with y'all?"

They stared at me like I'd lost my mind. One of them snorted, a sharp burst of laughter breaking the silence, but I didn't flinch. I stood my ground, shoulders squared, my gaze steady and unblinking. The moment stretched out, my heart pounding in my ears, until their amusement faded and realization set in. I wasn't joking.

After a few seconds, the one who'd been laughing stopped and looked me up and down. "You serious, kid?" he asked, his tone skeptical but curious.

"Yeah," I said, my voice steady. "I can sell. You gi'me the product, 'n I'll sell it."

They exchanged glances, skepticism etched in their faces. One of them narrowed his eyes, leaning in slightly. "You a cop?" The question hung in the air, sharp and pointed. I shook my head, keeping my expression steady. Maybe it was the look in my eyes, or maybe they just appreciated that I didn't flinch. Either way, their doubt began to waver.

One of them finally reached into his jacket, pulling out a few small bags of what looked like weed and pills. He pressed them into my hand, the plastic crinkling against my palm. The weight felt heavier than I'd expected, like it carried more than just product—like it came with expectations, risks, and consequences I couldn't yet see. "A'ight," he said, jerking his chin toward the street. "Go sell it, then. Let's see what you got."

I didn't hesitate. I walked off, my steps quick and deliberate, hitting the pavement with purpose. Truth was, I didn't know the first thing about selling drugs, but I knew people. I'd learned to size up a situation in seconds—how to make someone feel at ease, how to convince them they were getting a good deal when they weren't.

After my dad was gone, I haggled with vendors, pleading for lower prices on vegetables or fruits—or flat out stealing it if I had to. If you didn't know how to play the game, you didn't survive. Maybe that was the lesson my dad had been trying to teach me.

I found buyers easily, hustling from one corner of the city to another. My heart pounded, but I kept my face calm, my voice steady, making people feel like they were getting something special.

Still, unease gnawed at me with every sale. This wasn't who I thought I'd be, but I couldn't dwell on it. All I could think about was getting home to Mama, keeping the lights on, and holding everything together. Whatever fear I felt didn't matter—not compared to what was at stake.

I sold to the pimps who'd tried to recruit me earlier, knowing they were good for the money. I handed over the product with a forced smile and pocketed their cash like it was nothing. It felt like a game I didn't fully understand—but I assumed I was winning.

An hour later, I returned with cash in hand and no product left to sell. The rush was still pulsing through me as handed the money over to the men, hoping the cut I'd get would at least cover the water bill. They stared at me, wide-eyed, as if they couldn't believe I'd pulled it off.

One of them cursed under his breath as he counted the cash. "Holy shit," he muttered. "She's good."

I could see the respect in their eyes, and just like that, they decided I was worth something. Without another word, they grabbed my arms and led me to their boss. I didn't try to fight them, but I didn't want to get too involved in this shit.

After what felt like an eternity being dragged through the city, we finally reached some non-descript building. A sharp double knock on a metal door, and it creaked open, letting us inside. I was immediately stunned by the lavish interior—something straight out of a movie, or so I thought.

As we moved deeper into the building, I could feel the shift. The men who had brought me here—rough around the edges, always sizing people up—were still leading the way, but it was clear they weren't the ones in charge. Foot soldiers, workhorses. The men inside the building, with their sharp suits and cold eyes, had a different kind of presence. They moved with purpose, their steps deliberate and calculated. They were all so... Tall. The workhorses, by contrast, looked awfully simple. I couldn't imagine what I looked like compared to them all. A plain flannel and jeans on my body, barely scraping 5 feet on top of that.

It was obvious now—the street guys weren't in control. They were just runners, doing the dirty work for someone bigger, someone more dangerous. The men in this building weren't hustlers. They were businessmen, and I could feel it deep in my gut: the real power, the real influence, sat with them. The way they carried themselves—it wasn't about quick deals on street corners. It was about long-term strategy, about empire-building. And I was apparently about to meet the man at the top.

We stopped at the end of the hall, in front of a plain wooden door. One of the men knocked twice, and moments later, the door was opened from inside. Inside, the room was nearly pitch black, lit only by a single desk lamp casting a weak, uneven glow. The only other source of light was the glowing tip of a cigarette, hovering in the darkness, the smoke curling upward like a snake.

As we stepped inside, the door clicked shut and my eyes fought to adjust to the darkness. The man behind the desk leaned forward, shifting into the pale light of the lamp. The sudden shift revealed his cold eyes, calculating, the kind that seemed to strip you bare. I could see two guards standing silently at the sides of the desk, their eyes locked on us, watching every move. The dim light barely touched the sharp edges of his face, but enough to make it clear—he was the one pulling the strings here.

He didn't even glance at the men who'd brought me in. Instead, he took a long drag from the cigarette dangling lazily between his fingers, exhaling the smoke slowly, deliberately. The cloud curled in the dim light, thick and suffocating, filling the space with a stifling presence. For a moment, I thought the smoke might choke me, but I forced myself to breathe through it, to ignore the burning in my throat. I can't be weak. I thought. Weakness would cost me everything.

One of my escorts stepped forward, handing over the cash I made to one of the guards. "She made this off a few eighths and some pills," he said, his tone flat, not bothering to conceal his surprise. The guard took the stack of cash, examined it carefully, and counted it with deliberate precision. Then, leaning down, he whispered a number to the boss. The boss didn't respond immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his eyes flicking between the cash and me, narrowing as he took me in.

"Hm," he hummed, the sound devoid of emotion. "You have got guts. I will give you that."

I didn't reply. My heart hammered in my chest, each beat a reminder of how out of my depth I was. I had no clue what was happening, but everything about this man—this weird Russian mob boss sitting before me—screamed danger. His gaze was sharp, calculating, as if he were weighing me, deciding whether or not I was worth his time. The power he exuded, the control he commanded—it hung thick in the air, suffocating, and I knew instinctively that disappointing him was not an option.

"What is your age, Little Bird?" he asked, his Russian accent thick and foreign on my ears.

He took another drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around him like a cloud of indifference as his eyes never left me.

"'M fourteen." I picked at the skin of my fingers behind my back.

"Tell me your name," he said, his tone as bitter as the smell of tobacco.

The more he asked, the deeper the pit in my stomach grew. I hadn't expected to end up on the radar of some ritzy Russian mobster. My throat tightened, panic rising as I struggled to swallow. All I wanted was some quick cash and to get the fuck home.

"Beatrice," I said, the name feeling strange in the heavy silence, like it didn't belong here. My accent sounded out of place in this room, as if I didn't belong at all. He looked at me, his gaze piercing, studying me, sizing me up. For a moment, I could feel my pulse in my ears. I didn't know if I was being judged or evaluated. I couldn't tell. But I had a sinking feeling that this man—this ruthless man—had already decided what he wanted from me.

"Beatrice." He repeated my name, letting it roll off his tongue, his accent twisting it into something almost mocking. "You have got... potential, Bird." His smile was thin, predatory. "Why are you here? Money?"

I swallowed, fighting the urge to fidget under his gaze. The smoke still hung thick in the air, and the weight of his stare felt like it was pressing against my chest, making it hard to breathe.

"Money," I said, my voice steady, though my pulse hammered in my throat. "What else is there?"

The street men were then dismissed with a curt nod, they shuffled out quickly, their eyes lingering on me for a moment before the door closed behind them. The room felt smaller without them, the weight of the boss's gaze intensifying.

"Sit," he commanded, his voice firm as he gestured to the chair in front of his desk.

I sat, not wanting to refuse him, not wanting to give him any reason to see me as anything other than compliant. I folded my hands in my lap, trying to keep my body still, but my nerves were running wild under the surface.

He leaned back in his chair, the dim light from the lamp casting shadows on his sharp features. He took another drag of his cigarette and blew out the smoke slowly, his eyes never leaving me. "You want money. Why?"

I swallowed, trying to gather my thoughts. "My Ma... she's sick. I have t'take care of 'er."

His eyes narrowed slightly, as if he were sizing me up. "Tell me more," he said, the words almost like a command.

I hesitated, unsure of how much to say. I wasn't used to talking about my mom, not like this. But the pressure to explain, to justify my desperation, pressed against me, and the words spilled out before I could stop them.

"She's... she's been strugglin' for a while. She don't work... So, I'm the one who keeps the bills paid, who makes sure there's food in the house." I shifted in my seat, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm doin' everythin' I can to make sure she's okay."

He didn't react to my words. He didn't seem to care, really. But there was something in the way he was looking at me, like he knew there was more. His eyes flickered from mine to my hands balled in my lap.

"You are still hiding something," he pressed, his voice laced with an edge that made my skin prickle. "Tell me now. I don't deal in dishonesty."

I felt the walls closing in. I wanted to keep my mouth shut, wanted to pretend that there was nothing else. But I couldn't. His gaze held me, like he knew what I was trying to bury.

"My Pa," I began, my voice barely a whisper. "He was always drunk, always violent. He'd get worse every time he came home. It wasn't just the beatin's. It was everythin'. I never knew if it was gon' be worse one day or the next, but I thought it was just gon' go on forever, like he was always gon' be there, hurtin' her—hurtin' us." I paused, swallowing hard, my chest tightening as the memories flooded back.

I forced myself to look at him, my hands trembling. I wasn't sure what I expected him to say, but I wasn't prepared for the look in his eyes—appreciation, even amusement. As if this was something he could work with.

One of his lips was curled into a thin smirk. He wasn't disgusted, didn't seem surprised. If anything, it was like he'd found something he liked.

"You killed him?" His voice was smooth, and the question came out like an invitation, like he wanted me to say more.

I nodded slowly, not trusting myself to speak.

"I didn't wanna," I said, my voice strained, a stray tear sliding down the apple of my cheek. "But he wouldn't stop. He was hurtin' her. Everyday. I couldn't let 'em do it anymore. So I—" I swallowed, the phantom feeling of the gun's recoil causing my wrist to ache. "I had to stop 'em."

He didn't flinch, didn't grimace at the confession. His smile only deepened, a glint of admiration in his eyes.

"Good," he said simply, as if I had told him something he'd been waiting to hear. "You did what needed to be done." There was a pause, a dangerous calm settling in the room, and then he leaned forward, his voice dropping lower. "You have got fire. But fire... fire must be controlled. You will be scorched if you do not."

"You want to make it out? You have got the guts. That is more than most. But if you want to keep your head above water... you will need control. Of yourself."

I felt the weight of his words, but I wasn't sure what he was offering. My heart raced in my chest, adrenaline pulsing as I stared at him, waiting for him to spell it out.

He didn't disappoint.

"I will make you an offer. Something no one else will. You can work for me, but not just any job. You will work with the big players. Sell to people who matter." His gaze never wavered, and his lips twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You will have enough money. But you must always play by my rules."

My mind raced as I contemplated his offer. I thought of my mom. I thought of everything I had done to keep her safe, to hold everything together. I didn't have a choice. I had to take this offer, no matter what it meant.

But I needed to hear it from him.

"What's your name?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper as I met his eyes.

"Ivankov," His accent twisted the syllables, smooth and cold as he rose from his seat towering over me. He smirked, the slightest hint of approval flickering across his face as he extended his hand to me.

Without hesitation, I extended my hand, my palms sweaty but determined. He met my hand with his, his grip firm, unyielding. I felt a shiver run through me as his fingers closed around mine.

The deal was done.

Ivankov stood up from his chair, his gaze sharp and unblinking as he gestured toward the door. "Come with me." His voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it, something that made my feet move before I even thought about it.

I followed him through the halls of the building, my every step echoing off the cold marble floors. We stopped in front of a room near the end of a hallway. Ivankov knocked twice, and the door opened with a groan. Inside was a small, concrete, dimly lit room. At the center of it was a man—bound, bloodied, and beaten beyond recognition. He was slumped in a chair, his face swollen and bruised, naked and shivering. They had skinned parts of his limbs. I felt like I could smell the rot in the air as I met his wide eyes.

"He is a rat," Ivankov said flatly, his voice almost bored, as if this was something he saw every day. He probably did. He stepped beside me and the door clicked shut behind us.

The man's eyes darted to me, and all that came out was a shrill cry. "Please! I didn't tell anyone! I swear! I'm not a rat! You've got it all wrong, please!" His voice broke, frantic.

Ivankov didn't flinch. He walked around the man, inspecting him like an animal to be slaughtered. "This man has been leaking information," he said, his voice low and cold. "He's betrayed me. And I want him gone." He turned toward me, his eyes calculating. "You've proven yourself capable. You can finish this."

He reached into the back of his waist band and handed me his gun. "You killed your Pa, right? You can kill him too. It should be easy."

The way he said 'Pa' made my stomach churn. I looked at the man, trembling in the chair. Was this just like my father? My hand shook as I held the gun. The man's eyes pleaded with me, I tried my hardest to read him. But as the tears soaked his face, I couldn't help but wonder if he was lying. What if he actually snitched?

"Shoot him." Ivankov's voice was sharp in my ear, commanding, as if he was waiting for me to prove myself. "If you hesitate now, you lose everything. You go back to your mother with nothing. Is that what you want?"

I could see my mother's face in my mind, her weak, broken body, her terrified eyes whenever he would come home drunk. The gun in my hand suddenly felt colder. The decision I was making felt heavier.

I couldn't go back. I couldn't fail.

With a trembling breath, I raised the gun, my finger hovering over the trigger. I heard the man sobbing, begging, screeching, pleading, howling for his life, but I couldn't stop. My chest was tight, and I could feel my pulse in my ears.

The shot rang out, louder than I expected, and the man slumped forward, gone, in an instant.

Ivankov watched the scene with a strange satisfaction, his lips curling into a thin smile. "Good," he said, his tone smooth and approving.

I didn't feel anything. The gun slipped from my hand, clattering against the floor as I stood frozen. The room tilted, spinning, but I couldn't stop it.

It was like I had crossed some invisible line, one I'd been afraid of my whole life. I'd failed back then, couldn't bring myself to shoot the rabbit. I was scared, too weak. But now... Now it didn't matter. The thing I couldn't do as a child had been done, just not in the way I thought. It wasn't a rabbit, but a man. And I wasn't sure if that made it better or worse. All I knew was that I'd stepped over the line, and I doubt I could step back now.

OCT 9 - 2012

For the past three years, I've found myself stuck in a life I never imagined for myself—one forged by necessity, not choice. The weight of it presses down on me daily, and the monotony is suffocating. I've been turning the idea over and over in my mind for days now, and I know it's time. I can't keep doing this. I can't keep living this way. Each day, I sell to some big wigs that think Cocaine and LSD are their own ethereal beings. Each night, I sit in those dimly lit rooms, counting money, stacking it neatly, but all I can feel is its weight—not just the cash, but the responsibility, the fear that comes with it. It's like being trapped in a web, and the harder I struggle, the more tangled I get. There has to be a way out.

I've been thinking about it for a while, but now, more than ever, it's clear. I'm done. I turned seventeen a while back, past old enough to get a decent, minimum wage job. Sometimes I wonder why I never tried. Maybe it's fear—fear of leaving behind what I know, even though it's grimy, dangerous, and it's slowly juicing the life out of me.

The bills and the food are all covered for the house. Ma can handle the basics, but I'm not around enough to make sure she's really okay. And that gnaws at me, too. She can handle the basics but that's not enough for her. After everything, she deserves more than to see me only two, three times a week.

I don't know what Ivankov will say. I don't know if he'll laugh it off or get angry, but I can't go on like this. The very thought of this life, of being stuck in this world indefinitely...

So tomorrow, I'll talk to him. I'll tell him I'm done.

OCT 10 - 2012

My boots thump against the floor as I walk toward Ivankov's office, my heart pounding in my chest in rhythm with my boots. With a swift knock, the door creaks open, and Ivankov looks up from his desk, one eyebrow quirked as if he's waiting for me to say something. His face is unreadable, but there's a glint of curiosity in his eyes.

"Ivankov," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I need t'talk to you."

He gestures lazily to the chair across from him, a casual smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Sit, Bird." he says, using his annoying nickname for me like it's just another day, like we're having another ordinary conversation.

I sit, but I can't shake the tension in my muscles. I swallow hard, my mouth dry, but I push forward and force a brief, cordial smile.

"I'm done," I say, my voice firm, though inside I'm anything but. "I want out."

He stares and then he laughs, a deep, rolling sound that fills the room. The noise cuts through the thick silence like a knife.

"You are joking, right?" He leans back in his chair, still laughing, shaking his head as if I've just told him the world's dumbest joke. "You want to leave? After everything you have built here? After everything you have done for me? You are a funny one, Little Bird. "

I shake my head, trying to steady myself. "Ain't no joke, Sir. I'm done. I can't do it anymore."

The laughter dies. Ivankov's eyes turn cold, calculating. The smile falls from his face like a mask slipping off, and for the first time, I see the darkness in him fully. The air grows thick, and my heart skips a beat.

He stands, slow and deliberate, his chair scraping against the floor. He steps around his desk, towering over me, his presence so overpowering it makes the room feel smaller.

"Do you have any idea what you are asking for?" he spits, his voice low and dangerous. "Do you think you can just walk away? Do you think I will let you?"

My pulse races, and I take a breath, my voice is steady. "Been thinkin' 'bout it for a long time. I can't live like this anymore. I-I'm done."

He's fully rounded his desk, his hand gripping the edge of the desk as if holding himself back. I can see the anger swirling behind his eyes. If looks could kill, I'd be as dead as Pa.

In that instant, he grabs the fat of my cheeks tight in his grip, pulling me to my feet with a force that makes my neck burn. "You think you can just leave? You took a life to be here. You cannot undo that."

I stare up at him with wide eyes, fear clawing at my insides, "I don't want t'be a part of this anymore," I say, my words muffled from his grip.

Ivankov's grip tightens for a second, his face millimeters away as he searches my eyes for what feels like eternity. Then he releases me with a slow exhale. His face softens, and for a moment, I'm not sure what's coming next.

"You want out?" He says, his voice far too calm now. "Fine. You can go."

I blink, not sure if I heard him right. "What?"

His expression remains cold, but something darker flickers in his eyes. "You can leave," he says, almost too calmly. "Go home, that is your choice, yes?"

He leans back, tapping a finger idly on the desk. "But remember, Little Bird, some doors, once opened, are never truly closed."

His words hang in the air, unsettling, like the quiet before a storm. The faintest smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, but it's not amusement—it's a warning. I stare at him for a long moment, trying to read his face, but it's impossible. Finally, I nod, a mix of relief and disbelief flooding through me.

"Thank you," I say quietly, my voice tinged with gratitude, but I know it's not the end. It can't be. But it's a start.

Ivankov doesn't answer. He just watches me with that cold, calculating look in his eyes, like he's already moved past me, already thinking about something else. But I know the deal is done.

Soon enough, the door to Ivankov's office clicked shut behind me. My chest was tight, my legs unsteady, but I forced myself to walk. Step by step, I made my way through the halls of the building I had fatefully walked into some three years ago, the walls that had swallowed me whole and reshaped my life. I didn't look back.

The night air hit me like a slap when I stepped outside. It was cold and sharp, a stark contrast to the suffocating heaviness of that office. I still used Pa's old Yamaha—I named her Cindy—She was parked right where I'd left her just a few minutes ago. She was a relic of the life I was desperate to return to. I slung my leg around the bike's seat, feeling grip of the handle bars as I put the key in and revved the bike.

The engine roared to life, loud and unapologetic, as I pulled away from the building. As the distance grew, so did my breaths. The tension in my chest started to loosen, little by little, replaced by something I hadn't felt in a long time: hope.

I didn't drive far. Just a few miles down the road, I pulled into the lot of a cheap, nondescript motel. The neon sign buzzed and flickered overhead as I handed over a few bills for a room key. It wasn't much, but it was enough for tonight—a place to hole up, to think, to breathe.

The room smelled faintly of mildew and stale cigarettes, but I didn't care. I locked the door behind me and collapsed onto the squeaky bed, staring up at the ceiling. For the first time in years, I felt the smallest semblance of lightness.

I thought of Ma, of how her face would look when I told her I'd be home more. The thought was enough to bring a smile to my face, small but genuine. She wouldn't have to manage everything on her own anymore. I'd be there to cook dinner, to clean the house, to sit with her and make sure she was okay.

I couldn't wait to tell her. To see her face light up when I'd tell her, "I'm staying."

My mind wandered back to Ivankov's words, the weight of his presence still lingering like a shadow. The unease was there, buried beneath my excitement, but I pushed it aside. I couldn't let it take this moment from me. Not yet.

Tomorrow, I'd start over. But tonight, I allowed myself to dream of what starting over might feel like. For the first time in years, the future didn't seem so far away.

OCT 11 - 2012

The sunlight burned through the cheap motel curtains, dragging me awake. I blinked, groggy, the light too sharp for how little I'd slept. My BlackBerry buzzed on the nightstand. 10:03 a.m.

Today was it. Today was the day.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, a dull ache in my back from the lumpy mattress. Today was the day. I was going home. A flicker of excitement lit in my chest, growing as I hurried to get dressed. Pulling on my jeans and jacket, I couldn't stop the small smile from spreading across my face. It was the happiest I'd felt in years.

The drive was just over an hour, but it felt like the minutes crawled by. The bike hummed beneath me as I wound through familiar roads, the wind flowing through my hair as each mile brought me closer to the house I hadn't truly called home in years.

When I finally turned onto the dirt path leading to the house, my excitement hit its peak. My heart raced as I imagined Ma's face when I told her the news, when I told her I was coming back for good.

I clenched hard on the brakes, the bike skidding to a messy stop in the dirt. My hands gripped the breaks so tight my knuckles turned white within seconds.

The front door was wide open, hanging off its hinges, creaking slightly in the breeze like a goddamn warning.

"No," I whispered. My stomach twisted, my skin cold and clammy. "No, no, no."

I flung myself off of the bike, not caring if it smacked the ground. Gravel sliced under my boots as I sprinted toward the house, skipping the steps on the porch and launching myself to the door.

"Ma?!" I screamed, my voice cracking.

The second I stepped inside, the smell hit me—rotting wood, smoke, and something sour that made me gag. Everything was destroyed. The couch was flipped, cushions gutted. Glass crunched underfoot. The floorboards were ripped up, jagged splinters sticking out like broken teeth. Cabinet doors hung open, contents spilled and shattered.

"Ma!" I screamed again, louder this time, desperation making my throat raw.

I ran through the house, my heart hammering so hard it felt like it might burst. Each room was worse than the last, the destruction almost methodical, like someone had wanted to erase every inch of this place. But she wasn't in any of them.

Then I saw her door.

Closed. Untouched.

My stomach lurched. My legs felt like lead, but I forced myself forward. My fingers shook as I gripped the knob, sweat slicking my palm. I pushed the door open, slow, like the room might explode if I moved too fast.

The air inside was heavy, suffocating. Her room was clean, pristine compared to the rest of the house.

She lay on the bed, her back to the door, her figure bathed in the soft glow of morning light streaming through the window. The sun caught her dark auburn hair, setting it aglow in a way that reminded me of my own. She was unnervingly still. I could see specks of dust dancing in the sun beams, as if the air had been disturbed only moments before.

"Ma," I whispered, the word barely audible. My chest tightened, breath shallow and quick. "Ma?"

I stepped closer, my hands trembling so badly I had to ball them into fists. I reached out, my fingers brushing her shoulder. It was stiff. Cold.

"No."

I turned her over.

Her face was pale, eyes glassy and fixed on the ceiling. Blood caked the single gunshot wound in her forehead, the edges blackened. Her shirt was ripped open but still pooled around her shoulders, her skin exposed so erotically it made bile rise in my throat.

And then I saw it.

You can't escape this.

The words were carved into her stomach, from her sternum to her lower abdomen, jagged and raw, like whoever had done it didn't care about anything except making them hurt. Each letter oozed with coagulated blood, deep enough to see her innards, the edges of the gashes still angry and red.

My legs buckled, and I hit the floor next to her, gasping and gagging for air that wouldn't come. My hands covered my face, but I couldn't block it out. The image was seared into me, burned into my brain like a brand.

I couldn't scream, I couldn't shout. I could feel my entire body just break.

She would never move again.

I clawed at the floor, my nails splintering and cracking in half, but the pain barely registered over the suffocating grief and rage.

It's like a lightning strike to the soul. It doesn't just hit—it consumes, electrifies every nerve, leaving you raw and trembling as if your entire body is being ripped apart from the inside. It's a jarring, all-encompassing wave of pain that doesn't stop at the surface. It rushes through your veins, floods your lungs, and leaves you gasping for air you can't seem to find. It's not just the breaking—it's the moment before, when you feel everything at once: the shock, the disbelief, the unbearable weight that crushes down before the full force of the storm hits. It is devastation in its purest, most visceral form.

I'd thought I could leave, thought I could walk away from all of it—the deals, the danger, the blood. But I couldn't, and now I was entirely alone.

Ivankov would regret the day he dared to cross me. I didn't care how long it took or what it cost—I'd find him. And when I did, he'd wish for the sweet release of death, a mercy I'd never grant.

This wasn't over—not until I had him kneeling, drowning in the fire he saw in me.

Pa had tried to tell me. I didn't get it back then, but I did now.

Weakness will cost you everything.

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